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Subject: Re: {ASSM} REV Training Allie part 1 {Les Evans} (Mf cons reluct rom oral anal mdom 1st fsolo inc bd sm spank slave slow) [1/2]
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On Sun, 02 Jul 2006 01:10:01 -0400, lesevan@attglobal.net wrote:

>
> 
>
><1st attachment, "Allie1.txt" begin>
>
>
>
>Training Allie part 1, revised and extended {Les Evans} (Mf 
>cons reluct rom oral anal mdom 1st fsolo inc bd sm spank 
>slave slow) [1/2]
>
>"Training Allie" was originally posted as "Allie."
>
>Consider "The Story of O" and "9-1/2 Weeks." This story is 
>an exploration of the question: why would any woman consent 
>to persist in a relationship that, by any standard, would 
>be considered abusive? There are many possible answers, 
>each of which could be the basis for other stories. I hope 
>that "Allie" presents one answer.
>
>Introduction to Chapters 1-11:
>
>This fantasy has been living in my head for a year, and it 
>was time to let it out so maybe it would stop bothering me. 
>It concerns the lengthy seduction of a stepdaughter by her 
>stepfather. 
>
>The phenomenon of 'false memory' is real, and there is a 
>real article in "Scientific American" on the subject 
>(Scientific American September, 1997, volume 277, number 3, 
>pages 70-75). A Google search for "scientific american 
>false memory" should pick it up. In any case, I commend it 
>to the attention of other authors, particularly in the MC 
>genre, because I haven't exploited it to the full.
>
>If you're looking for a stroke story, this probably isn't 
>it. All places, events, and persons (including the author) 
>are fictitious.
>
>Acknowledgements: The single best example of intentionally 
>bad writing I know of, from Penelope Ashe. The idea of the 
>notebooks comes directly from "Second Best," by Thinking 
>Horndog. A line from "Guns of Navarone," by Alistair 
>MacLean. The yoga lesson, from a yoga book by Jean Couch. 
>Long after I wrote this, I realized that much of the 
>"training" theme was inspired by "Owning Mother and 
>Daughter" by Pedro Vila.
>
>Other influences will be obvious to those who spend too 
>much time reading this sort of thing. Thanks to all.
>
>Chapter 1: The Perils of Prevarication
>
>Jane Adams was my first wife, and I was her second husband. 
>She had been widowed several years earlier by a drunk 
>driver, leaving her with an 8-year old daughter to raise on 
>her own. She stood up to the challenge, and did her best 
>after her own lights, which is as much as anyone can ask of 
>a parent. We met in the line of work, found that we hit it 
>off, and in due course we decided to marry. After the 
>wedding ceremony, which was not memorable to any one not 
>directly involved, I moved in with them. Work it out: she 
>had a house that had already accommodated a married couple 
>with child, and, while I was very well off from my work in 
>technical training, I had up to then chosen to stick with a 
>bachelor pad. The three of us worked into a comfortable 
>household. Jane had traditional views, and changed her last 
>name, and her daughter's, to mine (Kennedy, if it matters). 
>
>Of my relationship with Jane and her daughter at the time, 
>the only element that is germane to this story is that Jane 
>had firm and non-negotiable ideas about how her daughter 
>should be raised: Catholic/parochial girls' schools, and no 
>dating until college. That wasn't right to my way of 
>thinking, but Allison wasn't my daughter, and I didn't get 
>to vote on it. I'll spare you any stories about sexual 
>activities between her daughter Allison (/never/ "Allie") 
>and myself as Allison grew up, simply because they didn't 
>happen. I did what I could to help with Allison's school 
>courses, tried to provide when asked whatever passes for 
>wise advice to an adolescent of any gender, be a provider, 
>and be a model of the male role. In Jane's mind, the male 
>role included the exercise of discipline, on the extremely 
>rare occasions that Allison's usually-exemplary behavior 
>warranted it. In time, Allison accepted me as Father, 
>Version 2.0, and called me "daddy," and no, it didn't give 
>me any special charge. When it became clear that the now-
>teenage Allison was beginning to chafe under the "no 
>dating" rule, it was made clear that that was Jane's rule, 
>and that was that. 
>
>Not that my prick didn't scent Allison from time to time. 
>Allison had bloomed into a beautiful specimen of the 
>feminine gender. But Jane was a good wife--she'd had years 
>of practice in a previous successful relationship, after 
>all. Some say that the way to a man's heart is through his 
>stomach, or his balls. Jane kept both of those avenues well 
>serviced. Some say that the way to keep a man faithful is 
>to keep him happy, and tired. She ensured that I was both. 
>
>Then, near the end of Allison's junior year at Saint 
>Virginia High School, the universe of drunk drivers visited 
>again, and took Jane from us. In a paradoxical way, Allison 
>took it better than I did, perhaps because it had happened 
>to her before, and she had learned how to cope, a little. 
>We were both damaged--there's no other word for it. No, it 
>didn't "drive us together," and I didn't see her step in to 
>be "the woman of the house."  After a month or so we began 
>to return to something like normalcy in our reduced 
>household, and we redistributed the chores between the two 
>of us.
>
>When the mourning period had passed, I became aware that 
>Allison was restless. I had been around her for more than 
>several years now, after all, and I'd have to be denser 
>than a brick not to pick up on her moods, at least a little 
>bit. And I could guess the cause: she was approaching the 
>end of her junior year of high school, and she wanted to 
>date. Her hormones were undeniably active, witness her 
>enchanting growth, and I suspected that she felt that after 
>her senior year, she'd be an "old maid." I also suspected 
>that she felt that she had a window of opportunity to 
>appeal the "no dating" rule that her mother had enforced. 
>In any case, I knew enough about parenting not to offer 
>advice until it was demanded. 
>
>Consequently, it was no great surprise when, one Friday 
>evening, in fact, the day she finished her junior year, 
>Allison came up to the doorway of the study/office of the 
>master bedroom suite and made it clear that she wanted an 
>audience. She was still in her school uniform from the day. 
>I was sitting at my desk, and she stood across from me.
>
>"Um, daddy, I'd like to talk to you about switching schools 
>next year."
>
>"Oh? Where to, and why?"
>
>She had clearly rehearsed this speech in her mind. "I'd 
>like to switch to Central High." (the local public high 
>school) "I think I'd get a better science education there, 
>in prep for going to college. The Sisters at SV" (local 
>speak for "Saint Virginia") "don't have the science labs to 
>give what it takes to prepare us for the best schools." She 
>stopped. End of prepared speech. In her mind, the next 
>thing that happens is that daddy agrees.
>
>I regarded her. The silence dragged on, her gaze wavered, 
>and she began to shift from one foot to the other. I began 
>to show anger.
>
>"Young lady, the last time I visited them, the science labs 
>at Saint Virginia appeared entirely up to snuff, and I know 
>something about the subject. I don't know why you want to 
>switch schools, but it has nothing to do with science labs. 
>You're lying to me, Allison, and I don't take kindly to 
>being lied to." She went pale. 
>
>I made a show of restraining my mounting anger. "I'll offer 
>you a choice. I can punish you for your lying, after which 
>we can start this discussion over again, without prejudice, 
>but with no promises on my decision one way or the other. 
>Or, you can avoid the punishment, but go to Saint Virginia 
>again next year, no appeals. What is your decision?" 
>
>This was clearly not the way she expected or wanted the 
>discussion to go. "W-what punishment do--"
>
>I practically frothed, spittle flying. "Stop! This is not a 
>negotiation! Which is it--punishment, without knowing what 
>it will be, but with a chance to present your case again, 
>or Saint Virginia next year?"
>
>Four or five deep breaths on her part, with delightful 
>effects upon the front of her white oxford-cloth Catholic 
>school blouse. A final shuddering inhalation: 
>"Punish...punishment."
>
>I made it look as though I was trying to get a grip on 
>myself. "Very well. You will receive a bare-bottom 
>spanking, as is just for such an infantile stunt." 
>
>"But, I'm too old to--"
>
>I slammed the flat of my hand down on the desktop. 
>"Silence!" She flinched. "Once again, which is it?"
>
>Another delightful deep breath. "I'm sorry. P-punish me for 
>lying to you, daddy. I want to try again to talk about the 
>schools."
>
>I let time pass while I watched her discomfort. I found the 
>situation too delicious to rush it. I had spanked Allison 
>in the past, but it had been years. Back then, she'd been a 
>preteen with the genderless bottom of that age. Now, she 
>was a blossoming woman. Oh, goody! Oh, woody! 
>
>"Very well, young lady. Over my lap." I'm left-handed, so I 
>had her approach around the desk from my left. As I wear my 
>wrist watch on my left wrist, I took it off; I remembered 
>the bruises it could cause--to me, not to her. She knelt 
>down and draped herself over my lap, left to right. The 
>sensation of her young breasts on the outside of my right 
>thigh was electric. I told her to give me her left wrist, 
>which I twisted up between her shoulder blades with my 
>right hand to control her struggles, and used my left to 
>sweep her plaid school skirt up, tuck it into her 
>waistband, and sweep her panties down. She was already 
>whimpering. 
>
>No time like the present, so I laid into her with all I 
>had. When I spank, it hurts everyone involved. Somewhere in 
>the back of my mind I was reminded of the old line "This 
>hurts me more that it does you." While my hand began to 
>smart and swell from the blows I was inflicting, I doubt 
>that the old line held in this case: she was rapidly 
>reduced to blubbering mush. I don't know how many times I 
>struck, but her rump glowed by the time I was unable to 
>continue. Frankly, I stopped because the squirming she was 
>doing over my lap would have made me come in my pants with 
>one more strike, which would not have helped the image I 
>was working on. I heard wailing coming from the vicinity of 
>my right ankle. My hand would be swollen for several hours. 
>Her ass would be red/purple for several days. I thought 
>that was fair.
>
>"All right, young lady. Up." I released her wrist, and she 
>sobbed to her feet, panties still around her knees, skirt 
>still tucked up. "Leave your clothing as it is. Go put your 
>nose right in that corner," I pointed, "and stay there 
>until I call you." Her face was flushed red, from her head 
>having been lower than her body when she was bent over my 
>lap, but also from her crying, and from the humiliation of 
>the situation. With the tears still streaming, she wiped 
>her nose on her wrist, looked at me for a moment through 
>swimming eyes, then shuffled as best she could to the 
>indicated corner of the room and pressed her nose firmly 
>into the plaster. I swear that I could have turned off the 
>lights and read a newspaper by the light given off by that 
>glowing ass.
>
>I left the room, and spent half an hour in the kitchen with 
>my left hand in ice, drinking a Scotch-rocks with my right, 
>and thinking about how I wanted the conversation to go, 
>before I refreshed my drink and returned to the study off 
>the master suite. I switched the icy Scotch tumbler to my 
>left hand to continue my treatment. She was exactly where I 
>had left her, and her sobbing had subsided to the 
>occasional sniffle. I went back to my desk. It was a power 
>dynamic, right? The person sitting at a desk has rank on 
>the person standing in front of it--think about the last 
>time you were in your boss's office. She heard me come in, 
>but didn't move. I sat, and waited, watching her bottom.
>
>"Very well, Allison, turn around and put your clothes back 
>together." She turned around, unaware that she was giving 
>me a breathtaking show, and made a delightful shimmy to get 
>the panties back in place. It wouldn't have surprised me 
>that she'd rather have avoided the contact of even the 
>wispy nylon with her burning rump. She pulled the hem of 
>her skirt out of the waistband. "Blow your nose." She did, 
>and wound up standing in front of my desk again. "You have 
>taken your punishment, and I'll say no more about it. You 
>wanted to make a case for switching to Central High. We 
>both know that the issue at hand has nothing to do with 
>science labs. What does Central have that Saint Virginia 
>doesn't?"
>
>She gave me another look, then it all rushed out. "Boys! I 
>want to date! Please, daddy...?" and she ran out of steam. 
>Well, duh.
>
>I decided that it was time to alter the dynamic of the 
>situation. The master suite had a small wet bar. "Allison, 
>pour yourself a glass of sherry and join me on the couch." 
>Jane and I had let Allison drink a glass of wine with us at 
>dinner from time to time. I watched as she poured herself a 
>rather full glass, probably thinking sherry was like wine, 
>right? I didn't say anything. She came over to the couch, 
>put her glass down on the end table, and sat down, v.e.r.y 
>carefully. I sipped my Scotch and waited until she nibbled 
>her sherry.
>
>"You want to date." It wasn't a question, but she nodded, 
>staring at the surface of her sherry as though it held 
>answers. Perhaps it did. "So if I had agreed to let you go 
>to Central next year, and later you'd asked to date and I 
>said 'no,' you'd have accomplished nothing." Another nod, 
>and a shuddering sigh.
>
>"Let me draw you a picture, figuratively speaking. If you 
>went to Central, you would walk into a social situation as 
>a senior where the other boys and girls would have been 
>dating for two or three years, and some of them fucking for 
>one or two years." Her head whipped around as though I'd 
>slapped her. Profanity wasn't often heard under this roof. 
>"Look, that's what they'll be talking about at Central, and 
>what they'll be calling it. Get over it. The girls will 
>have been honing their skills in the dating game for 
>several years, and the boys will have expectations about 
>what a girl will do on the first date, and the second, and 
>so on." She took a bite of her sherry. The level in her 
>glass was dropping nicely. I was in full-lecture mode.
>
>"How would you survive, let alone compete? For example, to 
>have that hunky guy in your senior physics class ask you 
>out, he has to notice you, and think maybe you'll be worth 
>his time, more than the girls he's been dating for several 
>years. What have the good Sisters taught you about 
>attracting male attention?" That got a little rueful smile 
>from her. "Then suppose you somehow got a first date. Maybe 
>you sink to asking him out. High school boys want one 
>thing--sex. It may be your prerogative to meter out the rate 
>and kind that you give, but that's what they're after. 
>Maybe a kiss at the end of the first date, a grope on the 
>second, and so on. If they don't think they're going to get 
>what they're looking for, you'll wind up sitting at home on 
>Friday nights, and again, you'd have accomplished nothing 
>by switching schools. Suppose it's the end of the first 
>date, and he tries to French kiss you--if you flinch and 
>giggle, the word will be all over school in 30 seconds: 
>'Allison Kennedy is a baby, don't waste your time.'" Her 
>glass was nearly empty.
>
>"At the other end of the problem, let's assume that you 
>develop the skills need to get a boy interested in you, and 
>yes, I mean sexually interested. He's going to be doing 
>things that will get you 'interested' too. What practice do 
>you have in controlling yourself when your hormones get 
>flowing? Because without those skills, without that 
>practice, your body will take over on autopilot, and you 
>could wind up fucking in the back seat of some guy's car, 
>just because he kissed your earlobe or something." 
>Unconsciously, her hand stole up to her ear. Her glass was 
>empty. Time for the close.
>
>"I'll summarize. First, you don't know how to get noticed." 
>I ticked the points off on my fingers. 
>
>"Second, you don't have the skills to keep a guy aroused 
>and interested and wanting more. Why do you care? Because 
>in order for him to get 'more,' he's got to ask you out 
>again, and that's what /you're/ after, right? Not just a 
>first date, but something ongoing, a relationship? For 
>which, you've got to be better at those skills than the 
>next girl."  
>
>Her body language said that she felt like she was being 
>pounded into the ground like a tent peg, each of my points 
>like the blow of a mallet on the top of her head. Exactly 
>the reaction I wanted.
>
>"Third, you don't know what that 'more' would be, how to 
>offer and control the progression of increasingly arousing 
>activities, activities that the girls at Central have been 
>practicing for several years now."
>
>Pound.
>
>"Fourth, once you've got him aroused, you don't have the 
>skills to satisfy him or yourself without intercourse, 
>because you don't know what the alternatives are to 
>fucking. And without those alternatives, you either fuck, 
>or you wind up frustrated, both him and yourself, which is 
>not the path to happiness." 
>
>Pound.
>
>"And finally, you don't have the skills or training to keep 
>control of yourself when he arouses you. All of this thanks 
>to the good Sisters at Saint Virginia."
>
>Pound
>
>"Have I missed anything?"
>
>Another long silence. She had not raised her eyes from her 
>empty glass. A single tear ran down the side of her nose. 
>"No, daddy, that's about it. I'll forget about Central." 
>She made as though to get up.
>
>"Allison," I said kindly, "just a moment. Let's ignore 
>Central for a second. What happens the year after, when you 
>go to The College Of Your Choice? Do you think the 
>situation will be any better? On the contrary, everyone 
>else will have had yet another year of practice. Sending 
>you off to college in your current state brings to mind the 
>phrase 'a lamb to the slaughter.'" Her eyes were open but 
>vacant, seeing I suppose some vision of Hell.
>
>"Look, you're going at this all wrong. This is about skills 
>and training and practice, and I know a thing or two about 
>training. You finished your junior year today, and have a 
>summer ahead of you with no major demands on your time, 
>right? I'll give you a chance, if you're willing to work 
>for it." She looked up, for the first time in several 
>minutes. "I'll work with you to teach the skills you'll 
>need. It will take a lot of time, a lot of energy, and a 
>lot of focus on your part and mine, and it will involve a 
>fair amount of discomfort from time to time, both physical 
>discomfort and embarrassment, because you'll be learning to 
>do new things you've never done before, and before you can 
>make progress you'll need to get over some of the nonsense 
>that the good Sisters have been pouring into your head." 
>She bristled at this. As much as she wanted out of Saint 
>Virginia, they and their kind had built her entire belief 
>system for her whole life. Well, we had a summer to work on 
>that. A man such as myself could accomplish much in three 
>months. "But if, by the end of the summer, you demonstrate 
>to me that you've learned all the essential skills, I'll 
>switch your registration to Central High and you'll have 
>permission to date, if you still want to. Otherwise, Saint 
>Virginia next year. It's up to you."
>
>She mulled it over for a long time, maybe three seconds. It 
>meant giving up her free time for the summer. And there was 
>this worrisome note about "discomfort." But it was the only 
>path to what she'd asked for. "OK, daddy. I appreciate it. 
>And I'll work hard, honest. Sign me up."
>
>"Very well, Allison. I'll spend some time putting together 
>a lesson plan. Come up to the study here after lunch 
>tomorrow and we'll get started." She carefully got up and 
>walked unsteadily toward the door, having to correct her 
>course in mid-flight, as it were. The sherry had hit her 
>pretty hard.
>
>Chapter 2: Cats and Dogs
>
>The next day was Saturday. We each had our own errands to 
>run in the morning, and finally crossed paths when we wound 
>up in the kitchen, each of us foraging for sandwich 
>makings. We sat at the kitchen table, munching. She, of 
>course, sat carefully. We adjourned to the study.
>
>"OK, daddy, where do we start?"
>
>I looked down at the lesson plan I'd put together. "Well, 
>I've blocked out the skills you'll need to demonstrate this 
>summer, and the order in which they need to be learned, 
>which is more or less the order that you'd need to use them 
>in a sequence of dates over a period of months. After 
>you've had some time to learn and practice a skill, I'll 
>test you on it. The most appropriate method of testing a 
>skill mimics the conditions under which you'd use the 
>skill." She looked blank. "You need these skills for 
>dating, right? We'll go out on a 'date,' you and I, every 
>week or so. I'll take the part of your 'boyfriend,' and 
>you'll need to show that you can use the skills appropriate 
>to that stage of a relationship under simulated 'live 
>fire.' Who knows, you might even enjoy the date.  They'd 
>probably be rather more classy affairs than the pizza and a 
>movie you'd likely get from a high school boy on an 
>allowance, but that's not all bad."  I laid just a little 
>disparaging emphasis on "boy." It seemed to me that it 
>wasn't too early to start setting her expectations. I had 
>my own agenda here. All work and no play, after all.
>
>"So, what's first?"
>
>"Unfortunately, several things. There are three skills that 
>need to be second nature, things that you do without 
>thinking. I want to get you started on all three today, 
>because it will take time for them to become natural, and 
>you'll work on them all summer. 
>
>"The first skill is managing your posture. You want to 
>date, which means that you need to have a first date, which 
>means that you need to get noticed. How are you going to 
>get a high school boy to notice you from across the room? 
>By giving a particularly intelligent answer in calculus 
>class?" I snorted, and she giggled, then looked down at her 
>chest, and back at me with a question in her eyes. "Right, 
>if he notices you, it will be because he notices your body. 
>So how do you stand out in a field of other senior girls? 
>By using what you've got to best advantage, and not hiding 
>it in a teenage slouch." 
>
>She squared her shoulders a bit. "That's the general idea, 
>and you can do much better with training. There are four 
>exercises in this group. And remember, this has to be 
>something you do without thinking, a part of how you carry 
>yourself, without even realizing it, whether you think 
>someone is looking at you or not. We'll begin with a little 
>yoga, for which you are not appropriately dressed. I'd 
>suggest that you go change into your swimsuit, and I'll 
>make a space here on the carpet."
>
>She returned in a few moments, wearing a modest one-piece. 
>The bottom almost completely covered the bruises I had 
>placed there the day before. I moved easily into my Trainer 
>persona. I mean, it's what I do for a living, after all.  
>"OK, the basis of posture is the pelvis. We'll begin with 
>the 'dog tilt' and 'cat tilt' positions. The purpose of 
>these exercises is to make you aware of the bone and muscle 
>structure around the pelvis, to do some gentle stretching 
>of the lower back, and to strengthen the muscles of the 
>abdomen.
>
>"Get down on your hands and knees and make yourself into a 
>table, one hand directly below each shoulder, one knee 
>directly below each hip. When I say 'cat tilt', you need to 
>do several things at the same time: exhale, arch your back 
>like an angry cat, let your head drop so that you're 
>looking down through the space between your legs, and curl 
>the bottom vertebrae of your spine as though you were 
>trying to touch your pelvis to your nose. Cat tilt." She 
>did nicely. I prompted, "Don't clench your buttocks, hold 
>the position with your tummy muscles only. Squeeze every 
>particle of air out of your lungs. Curl the spine more. 
>Hold it." I put my hands on her belly and at the base of 
>her spine and helped her refine the position. I wanted to 
>get her used to my touch. 
>
>"Now relax" and she dropped back into the neutral position, 
>inhaling. "Good. The 'dog tilt' is exactly the opposite: 
>when I say 'dog tilt', inhale, raise your head to look 
>forward, open your chest, let your upper spine hang from 
>your shoulders, and swing the base of your spine back and 
>up. Dog tilt. Good, rump up, inhale more, pull all of the 
>air in the room into your lungs until they can stretch no 
>more." I positioned one hand on each of her hips and made 
>some adjustments. "Good. Good. Hold it. Now...'cat tilt.'" 
>
>We spend 20 minutes on those poses until I was sure she had 
>learned them. She'd worked up a light sweat. "You'll do 
>those poses every morning and afternoon for five minutes. 
>I've put it on your copy of the homework list.
>
>"With that as a basis, the next exercises will be a little 
>easier. Stand up in front of the full-length mirror here. 
>We're concerned with both sitting and standing posture, and 
>we'll start with standing. Slouch for me. What's that 
>position?"
>
>She looked up, puzzled, then her expression cleared. "Oh, 
>'cat tilt!', sort of."
>
>"Right. And what's it look like?"
>
>She smiled. "Not much."
>
>"Right. Now, 'dog tilt.'" She did, and her breasts came out 
>from wherever the had gone and rose proudly on her chest. 
>"Nice, huh?"
>
>She admired herself, then frowned. "But it makes my bottom 
>stick out and my tummy bulge!"
>
>"Excellent! No dummy, you! Think of your pelvis as a bowl 
>of spaghetti: if you tip it, all the contents run to the 
>front and try to flow over the edge. So here's the final 
>pose: from the middle of the spine up, 'dog tilt,' and for 
>the pelvis, 'cat tilt.' Remember, curl the base of your 
>spine. Pull your pubis up into your navel. That's called 
>the 'mountain pose,' if it matters." It took her a moment 
>to make the neural connections, but she got it right. 
>
>"Oh, wow. That flattens my tummy, and raises my, uh, 
>bosom."
>
>"Allison, if you use that vocabulary at Central, you'll be 
>laughed all the way back to grade school. The boys will 
>call them tits, or jugs, or hooters, or boobs, or bazooms, 
>or lungs, or knockers, your rack, or two dozen other terms 
>you'll pick up in time. But dear, 'bosom' went out with 
>Queen Victoria."
>
>She blushed, a charming sight. "OK, it raises my...tits."
>
>"Very good. We'll work on your anatomical vocabulary as we 
>go. Now for sitting posture. It's almost the same, except 
>that the 'cat tilt' is hard to maintain while sitting. So 
>sit on the couch and do a full 'dog tilt.'" She sat, and 
>flinched. "Delightful. Sit on the front half of the seat--
>your back should never touch the back of a chair. Yes, I 
>know your bottom is still sore. Your back should be very 
>straight. Think of a hook descending from the ceiling and 
>pulling your head and spine into a column. 'Sit tall.' 
>Perfect. You'll consciously work on sitting and standing 
>posture for ten minutes every morning and afternoon. The 
>muscle-awareness of what good posture feels like should 
>trigger the sensation that 'something's wrong' if you let 
>it slip. That completes the first two exercises, on pelvic 
>and spinal control, sitting and standing. Any questions?"
>
>"No, dad. But you sound an awful lot like you're delivering 
>a class in database design, or something." 
>
>We shared a laugh. "Sorry, baby. Old habits die hard. Now, 
>the third exercise on posture. Here, have a look at this." 
>I showed her a Victoria's Secret catalog. "Now that you've 
>started to think about posture, look at the models. What do 
>you notice about their elbows?"
>
>That one really threw her. Here she was, confronted with 
>dozens of images of flesh and nylon, and impossibly 
>perfect, well, bosoms, and I wanted her to look at 
>/elbows/?
>
>"Uh, oh I see, they're all holding their elbows back."
>
>"Right, so we have the third exercise, to strengthen the 
>muscles of your upper back, and to reinforce the 'dog tilt' 
>posture of the upper spine." I took out a length of 
>broomstick I had cut and steered her over to a spot about 
>three feet from the wall. "Now, this is sort of a Zen 
>thing. I'm going to give you an instruction that is 
>manifestly impossible to do. Don't let that worry you. But 
>I do expect you to sweat bullets trying to do it anyhow. 
>Understood?"
>
>"I...guess so."
>
>"That's my trooper. OK, here's how this one goes. Stand 
>here, proper standing posture, 'dog tilt' above and 'cat 
>tilt' below, about three feet from the wall. I want you to 
>pull your elbows back, as though you were trying to make 
>them touch behind your back. Now, I'll slide this 
>broomstick horizontally behind your back--hold it there with 
>the crook of your elbows. Got it? Good. Now for the 
>exercise. Keep your heels flat on the floor, and look up to 
>the place where the wall in front of you meets the ceiling. 
>Here we go. Look at that seam between wall and ceiling. I 
>want you to touch that seam with your nipples."
>
>She turned and goggled at me. "Remember what I said? I 
>don't expect you to succeed, but I do expect you to try 
>very, very hard."
>
>"Oh. Uh, ok."
>
>It was magical to watch. Her tits rose another impossible 
>inch, and her whole posture fell into line. "Right, keep 
>that 'cat tilt' going. I'll be back in a few minutes." And 
>I left her to it.
>
>Ten minutes later, I returned. She was again sweating 
>lightly from the exertion, even though she was motionless. 
>Kind of an isometric exercise. "Don't change your position, 
>and tell me about your sensations. What's your body saying 
>to you?"
>
>"I'm getting sore between my shoulder blades. My rib cage 
>feels like it's expanded. I can feel the muscles in my 
>tummy pulling up on my pelvis."
>
>"Terrific! Damn, you're good! Now, relax." She positively 
>wilted with relief. I took the broomstick from her. "Those 
>are the sensations that tell you that your posture is 
>perfect. If ever you /don't/ feel like that, something's 
>wrong. You'll do that exercise for five minutes every 
>morning and every afternoon, just to remind your muscles of 
>what they should feel like. It's on your copy of the 
>homework list. Here's some water. Only one more exercise in 
>this set, baby, and we'll take a break, OK?"
>
>"Sure. I'm getting tired."
>
>"I don't wonder. Fortunately, the last exercise is more 
>mental than physical. I need you to do some mental imaging. 
>Close your eyes. Remember when you worked at the library 
>last year? I saw you pushing around some heavy carts of 
>books. Whenever you went through a doorway, the cart went 
>first, and you followed it into the room. Got that image? 
>Make a mental movie of it. Feel it in your muscles. Now, in 
>the movie, it's not a cart of books, but your tits that 
>you're pushing. Heavy, and way out in front of you. They 
>enter the room first, the rest of you follows along. Play 
>that movie."
>
>Eyes closed, she got an embarrassed little smile. "I see 
>it."
>
>"Here's another image. Two famous and powerful people are 
>walking briskly down a corridor, side by side, trailed by 
>short female assistant behind and between them. She almost 
>has to jog to keep up. At the end of the corridor, they 
>sweep into a room. Everyone pays attention to the famous 
>people, who are imposing and handsome, while mousy little 
>secretary behind and between them is ignored and almost 
>invisible. Got it?"
>
>Another smile. "I think I know where this one is going."
>
>"Of course. Nobody said you were slow. Ok, now alter the 
>image. The famous people are your jugs. Their faces are 
>your nipples. The little office girl is the rest of 
>Allison. In your mind, play a movie of the three of you 
>entering that room."
>
>"Not good for the self-esteem."
>
>"Aw, don't start. If it bugs you, remember that the three 
>of you have to work together. Or come up with your own 
>movie, the exact image doesn't matter. Now, enough for one 
>session. You're off for the rest of the afternoon. Take it 
>easy and relax. Be conscious of your posture, and every 
>time you go through a doorway, lead with your chest. I'll 
>see you at dinner."
>
>"Thanks, dad. Whew, what a workout." She followed her 
>nipples out of the room.
>
>I smiled. Things were starting well.
>
>Chapter 3: Arousal and Relief
>
>It was my night to make dinner, and I did some simple fish 
>thing. Allison had changed from her swimsuit into a spring 
>dress. I gave her one, ONE, glass of wine with dinner, not 
>enough to get her tipsy. After we cleaned up the kitchen, 
>we adjourned to the living room. It was still pretty early.
>
>"All right, Allison, this afternoon you learned some skills 
>that should help you get noticed, help you get first dates 
>with guys in your classes. What happens at the end of the 
>first date?"
>
>"He brings me home?"
>
>"Well, we can hope so. And you're standing on your 
>doorstep. What does he expect?"
>
>"Oh. The goodnight kiss."
>
>"Right. Without which, will there be a second date?"
>
>"Probably not."
>
>"So here we have another essential skill, and we're going 
>to spend the next hour on it."
>
>I turned down the lights, and we did, delightfully. We had 
>to get beyond the peck on the cheek, and the tongue thing, 
>but after twenty minutes or so she really started to get 
>into it. I won't claim to be an Olympic Medallist in 
>kissing, but she didn't have much to compare me with. The 
>smell of feminine musk became noticeable, and she wasn't 
>paying a lot of attention to where I was putting my hands. 
>At the end of the hour, I broke the clinch, and waited for 
>our breathing to return to normal.
>
>"Oh, daddy, I never knew..."
>
>"Allison, you're a gifted student and a delightful lab 
>partner." She blushed. "We'll do a lot of that this summer. 
>But you remember what I said about needing to deal with 
>your own arousal, so you wouldn't lose track of what was 
>going on and do something you'd regret? Look down at your 
>dress."
>
>"Aack! Daddy, you...." And she hurriedly buttoned up, and 
>pulled down the hem of her dress. Her blush, impossibly, 
>had become deeper.
>
>"Right. Have I made my case?"
>
>"Yes, but geez, daddy, you shouldn't be touching my..." she 
>paused, searching for another word "...knockers. You're my 
>stepfather!"
>
>"We'll talk a lot about relationships and their limits this 
>summer, Allison. But I had to shock you, because if you 
>didn't believe in the power of your hormones, you wouldn't 
>do what had to be done to deal with them."
>
>"OK, OK, I'm shocked. I believe. But geez. So what is this 
>magic antidote? Cold showers?"
>
>I smiled. "Nope, just the opposite. Cold showers sounds 
>like 'mortification of the flesh,' good Catholic doctrine, 
>but not very good for relationship management or mental 
>health, And not effective in the long run. No, the strategy 
>here is to permit yourself to be aroused, knowing that you 
>can release the frustration at a time and place of your own 
>choosing."
>
>"That sounds suspiciously like, well, masturbation." She 
>made it four distinct syllables, and it was clear that each 
>of the four distinct syllables of the word tasted bad on 
>her tongue.
>
>"Yes, Allison, that's..."
>
>"But the Sisters say that's a sin! Touching yourself 'down 
>there' is self-abuse, it makes you want to have sex, it...!"
>
>"Allison, down!" She stopped, and deflated. "Let me show 
>you why the good Sisters have it all backwards. The object 
>of the exercise here is to /avoid/ intercourse, not to pave 
>the way to it." Well, that was half the truth. And maybe 
>not all of a lie. "If you find yourself on a date feeling 
>like you did a moment ago, thinking that if you don't do 
>something you'll explode, with no relief in sight, isn't 
>the natural impulse to "go all the way?" But if you know 
>that you can provide yourself with relief in just a few 
>minutes, isn't it more likely that you can use that to hold 
>on to your principles just a little longer?"
>
>"Well, if you put it that way."
>
>"I do put it that way. And there's more." OK, the other 
>half of the truth. "The time will come as a relationship 
>develops that you will want your boyfriend, or lover, or 
>husband to bring you to orgasm. The female body is a 
>wonderful thing, because the more often a girl comes, the 
>easier it is for her to come. Your lover will feel pleased 
>and proud of himself if he can bring you off quickly. And 
>you can make that easier for both of you by practicing your 
>orgasm, frequently."
>
>A tiny nod. She was mortified to be discussing this. Too 
>bad. I told her she'd have that feeling when she signed up 
>for this.
>
>"Finally, 'playing with yourself' provides a good tool for 
>evaluating possible relationships." I'd lost her again. 
>"Look, you have fantasies, daydreams about guys, right?" 
>More blushing, just visible in the dim light. "I'll take 
>that as a 'yes.' You imagine different situations, 
>sometimes he's a strong adventurer, sometimes a nurturing 
>homebody, sometimes he sweeps you off your feet, sometimes 
>he pursues you on bended knee...." An anatomical mixed 
>metaphor there, I realized. Oh well. "You have the 
>opportunity to find out whether a kind of relationship 
>really lights your fire. If you find yourself masturbating 
>with one particular image more often than others, that may 
>be a sign that that's the kind of relationship you seek at 
>that point in your life. You can 'try on' a lot of 
>different relationships, keep the ones that work, discard 
>the ones that don't, and no one needs to know. It's a lot 
>cheaper than divorce."
>
>"But..."
>
>"Allison, masturbation is one of the essential skills you 
>need to demonstrate to get to Central High. What's it to 
>be?"
>
>A long pause, stretching into minutes. She studied her lap. 
>Then, very quietly, "OK, what do I do?"
>
>I silently let out a breath I didn't know I'd been holding. 
>That had been the Rubicon. After this, it would all be 
>easier.
>
>"Tonight, we'll go back to kissing. It should be obvious, 
>but the rules of posture don't apply. Take off your 
>panties--look, dammit, it's not as though I didn't get well 
>acquainted with that end of you yesterday!" She remembered 
>the spanking with chagrin, and swallowed her objection. 
>"When you begin to feel aroused, go ahead and touch 
>yourself in any way that feels good. And I'll offer 
>direction as best I can. I'm just a guy, but I have some 
>experience with female anatomy."
>
>"OK, but don't look."
>
>"Oh, come on. How can I tell you how to get better if I 
>can't see what you're doing?"
>
>"Humph."
>
>And then we were back at the kissing game, in each other's 
>arms. Actually, she was in my arms. After a little while, 
>hers were otherwise occupied. 
>
>"Allison." Her head came up and she tried to focus. "Eyes 
>open. You'll want to watch your lover, and he will want to 
>watch you. Don't close your eyes." After that I didn't 
>really need to do much to help things along, the occasional 
>caress, a word of direction now and then, a kiss on an 
>earlobe, and in a while she was bucking and shuddering 
>against me. And she dissolved into tears. Good, I thought, 
>almost certainly her first orgasm, looking into my face, 
>and with my arms around her, with my hands on her skin. If 
>there's anything to "imprinting," we should be well on our 
>way.
>
>"Shh, baby, wasn't that good?"
>
>Her reply was inaudible. Slowly she returned to reality, 
>and pulled down her dress. "I...need to pee." 
>
>"Of course, baby. But come back."
>
>She reappeared in a few minutes. It looked as though she'd 
>splashed some water on her face. "Allison, look at me." She 
>dragged her eyes up off the carpet, and I took her hands in 
>mine and looked into her eyes. "You can't know how honored 
>I am to have been here for that." A little half-smile from 
>her. "You'll do that at least twice a day, once each day in 
>front of me." Her eyes got wide, but I bulldozed ahead. "As 
>I said, part of the value of masturbation is that it let's 
>you 'try out' relationships. Here's a stack of stories, 
>each of which is an example of some relationship." 
>Wonderful thing, ASSTR.ORG. "Read one each time you play 
>with yourself, and sort them into folders I'll give you--one 
>each for 'Ugh!', or 'Nice', or 'Oh, wow!'" Over time, you 
>may begin to see a pattern in the ones that light your 
>fire. Review the folders now and then. Again, Allison, 
>thank you. It's been a wonderful evening." And I meant it.
>
>And so to bed. I had a date with my hand.
>
>Chapter 4: Mutual of Omagawd
>
>The next morning, Sunday, got going slowly. I was down in 
>the kitchen working my way through a cup of coffee when 
>Allison made her appearance, following her nipples into the 
>room. Her posture was perfect. I wasn't sure, but I thought 
>she looked a little flushed. In any case, she avoided my 
>eyes.
>
>"Allison." Finally she looked up. "Good morning, 
>beautiful." I kissed her, at considerable length. If she 
>wasn't flushed before, she was now.
>
>"Good morning, dad." A shy smile.
>
>I took her hands and brought them to my nose for a sniff. 
>"Good girl." I'm sure she wanted the floor to open up and 
>swallow her. "Now, none of that. You've done a beautiful 
>thing. You had a lot to absorb yesterday, so nothing new 
>today. Just keep up with the exercises in your homework 
>list. We'll do a refresher this evening after dinner. 
>Otherwise, go enjoy the day." 
>
>That evening, after dinner was cleared, we went up to the 
>study. I had her bring her sheaf of stories, and make 
>herself comfortable on the couch, with a good reading 
>light. I said, "OK, peel off a story and go ahead and 
>'enjoy yourself.' I may coach from time to time, but 
>otherwise I'm not here." This was a new situation for her. 
>This morning, she had done the deed in the privacy of her 
>room, and yesterday, it had been in the heat of the clinch. 
>Now, she had to bring herself off, from a standing start, 
>and with a watcher. I gave her a glass of sherry and went 
>to my desk, pretending to work. The configuration of the 
>room for this exercise was no accident: she was more-or-
>less facing me. I wanted her looking at me as she came. 
>After a moment of hesitation her eyes dropped to the page 
>and she submerged herself in the story, this one with a 
>strong theme of dominance and submission. I had taken care 
>to ensure that her pile of stories had that theme well 
>represented. A few pages into the story, she dipped her 
>hand into her shorts and began stroking, and a bit later 
>she laid down the story, closed her eyes, and began to work 
>herself in earnest.
>
>"Allison. Eyes open. Try pinching your nipples." She was 
>far enough gone that she didn't try to respond verbally. 
>The fantasy and her own manipulations took over again, and 
>though her eyes were glazed, seeing god knows what, but 
>they were open and pointed in my general direction. Good 
>enough. A few minutes later she came, with something 
>between a groan and a whimper. I let her recover, then 
>said, "That was beautiful. Thank you." I gave her a 
>thorough goodnight kiss, and sent her to her room with a 
>"See you in the morning. Remember your exercises. And you 
>have a date on Saturday. Some guy is going to take you to 
>dinner and the Opera."
>
>The next morning brought a new work week, and I did have to 
>make a buck. I spent most of the day trying to nail down 
>some training contracts with three potential clients. The 
>bad news was that two of them took lower-priced bids from 
>competitors, but hey, if you're never underbid, you're not 
>charging enough. The good news was that the third one 
>signed, and would give my small organization all the work 
>it could handle for a month, at a premium rate. So I was 
>feeling pretty good about the day as evening approached. It 
>was then that I realized I hadn't seen Allison all day. As 
>I was pouring myself a Scotch, and laying out things for 
>dinner, she made her appearance in the kitchen, in a little 
>wrap dress thing I hadn't seen before. 
>
>I'm slow, but two and two eventually got together. 
>"Shopping day?"
>
>She smiled, almost coquettishly, the first full, 
>unembarrassed smile I'd seen from her for several days. She 
>did a spin in the dress, which resulted in showing an 
>improbable amount of thigh. "Yes. If I'm going to have a 
>date at the Opera this weekend, I need to have the weapons 
>and the warpaint." Good, she was getting into this.
>
>I smiled back. "That wasn't the only purchase, then? Do I 
>hear my credit cards whimpering? I think a sauvignon blanc 
>with this fettuccini--would you drag one out of the cooler?" 
>And we were off into the evening. 
>
>Later, we convened in the living room. I put on some quiet 
>jazz, and turned down the lights. 
>
>"Let's review." 
>
>She rolled her eyes. "Yes, teacher." But she smiled when 
>she said it.
>
>"You've got the skills, and the body, to get a first date. 
>You are starting to get some experience dealing with what 
>it feels like when your hormones start pumping. And you're 
>starting to get some practice with what to do to relieve 
>yourself when aroused. But what about your date?"
>
>"My date?"
>
>"Come now, dear. Guys have needs, too. If you aren't 
>thinking about where his hormones are taking him, if you 
>aren't one step ahead, then you're hopelessly behind."
>
>"Oh. Well, can't he go home and 'play with himself?' This 
>cuts both ways, doesn't it?"
>
>"Sure he can. And will, at first. But string that along too 
>far, and he'll go elsewhere, or deliver an ultimatum along 
>the lines of 'Put out or I'm gone.' You don't want that, 
>because at this phase of things, you want to avoid 
>intercourse, but you want to keep the relationship going. 
>You don't want to have to choose between. So you want to 
>take things gradually, as you sense the kind of 
>relationship it's going to be, and whether you want that 
>relationship, and with this guy. But the time will come 
>when you need to do more than arouse and frustrate him, if 
>you want to keep him. Think about the feelings you've been 
>able to give yourself over the last few days. Imagine what 
>a gift you'd give your lover to make him feel like that, 
>and to have him give you those feelings in return. Whether 
>you call it 'heavy petting' or 'mutual masturbation', it's 
>a wonderful experience. And it's tonight's lesson."
>
>She swallowed, hard, at that one. "Here we go again," she 
>said.
>
>I made a show of exasperation. "Dammit, I didn't come to 
>you and say 'Please let me teach you about sex.'" 
>
>Actually, I'd said something more like, I'll teach you 
>about sex or else. 
>
>I continued, "Look, if this isn't what you want, I've got 
>other things to do." And, I didn't have to add, you will go 
>to Saint Virginia in the fall. 
>
>"No, no, I'm sorry. You're right. How do we start?"
>
>"I don't want to spoil that nice cocktail dress. Change 
>into your robe and meet me here in fifteen minutes." I used 
>the time to change into my own robe, pour us a couple of 
>glasses of wine, and spread out some cushions on the living 
>room floor.
>
>"So, we meet again, my pretty," I said, twirling an 
>imaginary moustache. She snickered. "OK, I get no respect. 
>Join me here and let's neck." And we did. When things had 
>warmed up sufficiently, I said, with as steady a voice as I 
>was able, "The way this will work is, I will do for you 
>what you've been doing for yourself the last several 
>nights, and you will do for me what I've been doing for 
>myself the last several nights."
>
>Her fogged vision cleared for a moment, and she said, "Oh. 
>Oh my" as the realization of what I'd said, and what it 
>implied, hit home.
>
>I continued, "Feel free to coach me, as I will coach you." 
>And I reached for her. She flinched at my touch. I took it 
>very slow, because after all this was to be a learning 
>experience for her, so it wouldn't do to have her too 
>worked up to think. I dialed my fingers to "simmer" and 
>waited. She hesitantly opened my robe, and came face-to-
>face, or face-to-cock, with her first penis. I'm only 
>average, but again, she didn't have anything for 
>comparison, and I was gratified by her response.
>
>"Go ahead and explore. If you're gentle you can't hurt me." 
>She looked as though she'd rather touch a corpse, but my 
>caresses had her going, and she reached out with her 
>fingertips and made contact. Of course, I already was fully 
>erect. I'd have had to be a corpse to be otherwise. "A 
>little bit about the male anatomy that the good Sisters 
>didn't tell you. That's the head, or crown, and the rim you 
>see there is very sensitive. Run the tips of your fingers 
>around it. Ahhhh....good. Wrap your fingers around the base, 
>a little more firmly, and stroke upwards. Uhh. You're doing 
>fine. Now relax your fingers until you're barely making 
>contact, and stroke downwards. Ahh...nd repeat. Loose on the 
>down stroke, firm on the upstroke. Yes."
>
>I shut up at that point, because she was doing fine, and 
>because I was finding it very hard to speak. And this was 
>not the time to teach her the subtleties of the hand-job. 
>So I concentrated on keeping her just below a boil, with 
>pleasant results. Maybe she'd learn a thing or two about 
>how to do herself. The hard part here was trying to achieve 
>near-simultaneous orgasm. You know the old one: "To go 
>together is blessed, to come together is divine." Not that 
>it was indispensable, but at this stage of her training, 
>the associations would help matters along.
>
>"Baby, slow down for a minute, let me talk." I was on the 
>edge, and while she was still hearing me, I sensed she was, 
>too. "When girls come, it's usually rather tidy. The good 
>Sisters have told you about semen. When men come, it makes 
>a bit of a mess. I'm going to come about when you do, and 
>it may get a trifle sloppy. Don't let it put you off. OK, 
>here we go." I put my mouth back over hers and, as I felt 
>that familiar almost-painful sensation begin to build in my 
>crotch, I diddled her clit for all I was worth. She lost 
>control of her body, yelling into my mouth as she came, and 
>damned if she didn't try to rip my dick out of my groin in 
>her convulsions. But that sent me over the edge, too. And 
>she kept the soft-down, hard-up rhythm the whole time.
>
>It took several minutes before either of us was aware of 
>the outside world. I kissed the side of her neck and said, 
>"Thank you."
>
>She looked down at her hand, now aware of my goo on her 
>fingers, which were still wrapped around my shrinking cock. 
>"Did I do that?" she said with wonder in her tone.
>
>"Yes, baby, and very well you did it, too."
>
>She giggled. "Like you said, a bit of a mess. What do I do 
>about it?" 
>
>"Very good" I said. "If not quite one step ahead, at least 
>catching up fast. The answer is, whatever you want. Most 
>men find it intensely sexy if you lick it up. You could 
>clean it up with a washrag. Or leave it to be my problem. 
>It's your call."
>
>Though she didn't move a millimeter, physically, I could 
>sense that she recoiled from the image, but she kept her 
>hand around me. After a minute or so, she shivered a bit, 
>looked back into my eyes, then bent around to clean up her 
>hand, my dick, and my belly with her tongue. It was 
>heavenly.
>
>When she was done, she came back up and nestled in the 
>crook of my arm. The expression on her face and the tension 
>in her body told me that she was, as they say, 'deeply 
>conflicted.' "Allison," I said. She looked up. "Thank you." 
>And I kissed her deeply. I tasted myself on her tongue, not 
>my favorite sensation, but this was all for the greater 
>cause. The kiss went on. And on. After a while I felt her 
>relax in my arms, as if she had come to terms with what 
>she'd done with her hand and her mouth. Yet later she broke 
>the kiss.
>
>"Jack," she said. I looked at her. That was the first time 
>she'd used my given name. "Thank you." And she put her head 
>back on my chest. A long while later, I sent her to her 
>room, and tidied up the living room.
>
>Chapter 5: Celeste Aida
>
>The rest of the week, I left her pretty much to her own 
>devices. I didn't touch her, once. 
>
>We had the usual cursory chat at breakfast/coffee before I 
>dove into work each day. Somebody had to pay those credit 
>card bills. We had a pleasant dinner together, one or the 
>other of us doing the cooking. Every evening, she would 
>read a dirty story to herself and masturbate on the couch 
>in the study in opposite me, her eyes on me. I would remind 
>her to do her "exercises." And that would be that. Except 
>that I would find her watching me from time to time. When I 
>made eye contact, she would blush and vanish into her room. 
>And we were back to "dad," not "Jack."
>
>And we both knew we had a 'date' coming up on Saturday. I 
>told her, "Look, forget if you can that this is some sort 
>of 'test.' I'm going to treat you the way you should expect 
>and demand to be treated on a date. Here's the scenario. Be 
>dressed and ready at 5PM. I will drive up to the front 
>curb. I will come to the front door, not honk the horn. I 
>will come in to the house to greet you, not expect you to 
>come out to the car. If I were going to do this really 
>right, I'd have a discussion with your father about my 
>'honorable intentions,' but I don't feel right talking to 
>myself." She laughed into her hand. "We'll do whatever the 
>date is, in this case, dinner and the Opera. Relax and 
>enjoy yourself--if you can't, one of us is doing something 
>very wrong. If you don't feel like a princess at least at 
>some time during the evening, ask yourself whether you want 
>another date with this clown. But will you be 'one step 
>ahead' of me? In this case, assume that we've been dating 
>for a couple of months, progressed to necking and touchy-
>feely, but you've refused more. I've made it clear that I'm 
>ready for more than a smooch and a grope, and I'm about out 
>of patience. Otherwise, tonight is a 'last hurrah.' You've 
>decided that the relationship has matured enough for the 
>next step. Sometime during the evening you'll have an 
>opportunity to show off the skills you've been learning. 
>Let the situation develop. Play the role. Take the 
>initiative if feels right. You're a high school girl being 
>taken on a date by an 'older man' named 'Jack.' As an 
>instructor, I'll be watching for your technical execution 
>of the skills, but more importantly for your judgment on 
>what's called for given the development of the 
>relationship. As your date, I'll bring you home and walk 
>you to the front doorstep. If the evening has gone well, 
>I'll kiss you goodnight. Again, in the real world I'd turn 
>you back over to your father, but too bad. I'll drive away. 
>A few minutes later I'll park the car in the garage, and we 
>can 'drop role' and do a post mortem of the evening over 
>coffee or drinks. OK?"
>
>And so it happened that in the fullness of time Saturday 
>rolled around. I put on the suit that I kept in the closet 
>for meetings with other 'suits', dragged the Lexus out of 
>the garage, drove around the block, and pulled up to my own 
>front door. Funny, I had to corral the butterflies in my 
>gut as though I were a teenager again. Deep breath, Jack, 
>and center. I walked up to the house and pushed the button. 
>After making me wait just the right amount of time, the 
>door opened, and there was my Allison. No, not my Allison. 
>She stood, well, regally. A teenage incarnation of sex, in 
>another dress I'd never seen, a maroon item that was 
>classy, but too tight in too many places, too short in too 
>many others. If I were acting as her father, I'd forbid 
>her....
>
>"Jack!" she squealed, and was in my arms. Instant erection. 
>No wonder I was dizzy: all the blood in my brain had rushed 
>to my dick. She twisted around in my arms to face the open 
>front door. "Daddee!," she tossed over her shoulder into 
>the hallway behind her, "byee!" Never mind that the house 
>she was shouting into was empty, it was clear that she was 
>into the role. She freed one arm from my embrace to close 
>the door behind her and offered me that arm. "Shall we?"
>
>I won't bore you with the most of the proceedings. 
>
>Dinner was at a small, quiet restaurant on the fringe of 
>downtown. We were early enough that the dining room was 
>mostly vacant. Service was instant without hovering, the 
>scallops were perfectly done, and we begged off of dessert 
>lest we fall asleep during the Opera. Allison glowed. Her 
>spine never touched the back of the seat.
>
>And then the Opera. Ah, yes. Verdi's "Aida," and not by 
>accident. The next week would have been "Othello," which 
>wouldn't have done at all. But here we have the queen 
>enslaved, falling in love with her owner, who has fallen in 
>love with her. Perfect. As we waited at the curb for the 
>car afterward, Allison gushed about the lead soprano. I 
>turned to her, wrapped my hand under her chin, kissed her, 
>and said, "But who had the power in that relationship?" I 
>might as well have spoken Swahili. But the question sank 
>in, and I could almost hear the gears turning in her head 
>on the silent drive home. 
>
>"OK," she finally said. "I think I get it. It's a kind of 
>vicious circle, isn't it?" I glanced over her as I drove, 
>her face illuminated by the instrument lights on the 
>dashboard, and kept my mouth shut. "I mean, they owned her, 
>she was property, like...I don't know...a pet rock, or a 
>goldfish, or something." She shivered. "Aida was a slave, 
>for chrissake! So he had the power. But he loved her. So 
>she had the power. She betrayed him, and when he was 
>punished for what he'd done for her, she found that she 
>loved him, and he had the power. And then around it went 
>until it blew up. And everybody died, of course, like all 
>operas."
>
>I said I thought that would do as a plot synopsis. As I got 
>back to our suburb and pulled off at the usual exit, 
>Allison turned to me and said, "Could we stop by Cornell 
>Park, 'Jack,' just for a couple of minutes? I don't have to 
>be home just yet." I said sure. Cornell Park was a small 
>park in a nice neighborhood cut off by the way the freeways 
>had cut through the town, and there wasn't a lot of traffic 
>through that area. I pulled into a dark spot and cut the 
>engine. The almost imperceptible grumble of the engine died 
>away, and she was in my arms, her lips to mine, pressed to 
>me as best she could over and around the center console of 
>the Lexus. Damn, I hate making out in a car. I thought I 
>got over that when I got my own place. One of us was going 
>to need a chiropractor. I pushed her back. "Allison," I 
>said, staying in role, "we need to talk about whether this 
>relationship can continue like this. I really don't think I 
>want to hurt you by...."
>
>"Please?" she interrupted me. I played dumb. "Please," she 
>said again, "touch me, there?"  She had twisted around so 
>that she was lying across the two seats, facing rearward, 
>and therefore facing me, and her hand fell to open my fly 
>and begin her own kneadings. Her position made it easier 
>for me to put my right hand where it needed to go, to do 
>what it needed to do. The whole thing was not quite 
>anatomically impossible.
>
>Never one to refuse a desperate woman, I ran my fingertips 
>beneath the hem of her dress and up her thigh. "Imagine my 
>surprise," as the saying goes, when I found, not pantyhose, 
>not panties, but thigh-high stockings and moist flesh. 
>"Well, what do we have here?" I said as I commenced 
>exploratory manipulation. "Sluts dress like this. Are you a 
>slut, or do you just dress like one?"
>
>She began to squirm under my efforts. "Ah, 'Jack,' you know 
>I want keep seeing you, but I've been raised to be a 'good 
>girl.' I've held you off, I know you're fed up, but can you 
>accept that I want to take it slow? Can I make it up to you 
>a little, like...this?" A squeeze. "I've never...touched any 
>man...like...this before." Academy Award stuff, this. And loose 
>on the down stroke, firm on the upstroke. Where did she 
>learn that little twist of the wrist? OJT? "Tonight felt 
>special. I knew I was ready to give you more, at least a 
>little more. At the intermission I knew I didn't want 
>anything to get in the way, so visited the little girl's 
>room to...clear the way. For you. I'm not a slut, ah, yes, 
>there, but I'm beginning to think I might want to be /your/ 
>slut, if you'll...teach me? Am I, am I doing it right, for 
>you?" Real desperation in her voice, or at least, really 
>good acting of real desperation. I found that I didn't care 
>which.
>
>My efforts were being rewarded, as were hers. Both of us 
>were standing on the cliff. I drew a ragged breath. "Baby, 
>I'm going to make a mess on my suit if you do that any 
>longer." Her eyes focused on my face as best she could, and 
>she made a little smile without slacking the motions of her 
>hand. Then the next thing I knew, her mouth was around the 
>head of my cock and I was erupting into that hot cavern, 
>and her thighs clenched around my hand as I pushed her off 
>of her own cliff.
>
>The short drive home was, you'll forgive the expression, 
>anticlimactic.
>
>I did the walk, did the kiss at the front door, did the 
>"I'll call you this week, maybe" and she let herself in 
>and, with a lingering glance, closed the door. Through the 
>closed door I heard "Dadeee, I'm hoome." I shook my head, 
>took a deep breath, and went back to drive the car into the 
>garage.
>
>By the time I got into the house, she was in her robe, and 
>had a sherry for herself and a Scotch for me already made. 
>I excused myself to change, hung up my suit, and was back 
>in the living room in a few minutes. We sat in our robes 
>and nibbled our drinks, and I said, "OK, post mortem time. 
>Talk to me."
>
>She looked up at me through her eyelashes (where do they 
>learn that?). "What do you want me to say? What an evening! 
>You told me I should feel like a princess. I did. I had a 
>relationship with 'Jack' that I wanted to keep going, but 
>'he' was tired of waiting for me to decide to keep 'him' 
>happy, happier than I'd been willing to do in the past. I 
>wanted the relationship to continue. I made some decisions, 
>dressed for the occasion, took some risks, and used what 
>I've been taught." She paused, with a small smile. "Tell 
>me, 'Jack', how did I do?"
>
>It was odd, being referred to by my own name as though it 
>were a pseudonym. I tried to put on my face of an 
>instructor doing an evaluation. It didn't work. "Ahhh. 
>Where do I start? You did fine. More than fine. Obviously, 
>you ...." Damn. OK, Jack, another deep breath. "Two things. I 
>was astonished when you took me in your mouth. Very good. 
>Oh, very good. On the other hand, you might have been a 
>little more 'hard to get.'" 
>
>She placed the brilliantly red nail of her forefinger to 
>her brilliantly red lips and put on a wide-eyed, puzzled 
>expression. It was a caricature, a '50s pinup. "Hard to 
>get!? But Jackee, baby, whatever would I have done with my 
>hands?" We both collapsed in roars of laughter. I sent her 
>to her room, and went upstairs.
>
>Chapter 6: Relational Data
>
>So we started July with a certain amount of momentum, and I 
>made some changes in our routine. She still did her posture 
>exercises, and twice a day read her smut while 
>masturbating. Maybe more that twice a day, for all I know. 
>Her three folders of stories were filling up. 
>
>No, the changes were more subtle. The training always 
>remained separate from our day-to-day relationship, but a 
>little less so. I stopped referring to the weekly testing 
>events as 'dates.' They were always for testing purposes, 
>but they became dates, without the quotation marks, and 
>then became just enjoyable special things we did together, 
>that provided an environment for the testing. I stopped 
>being 'Jack,' some fictitious guy she had a 'date' with, 
>and was myself, a stepfather trying to teach his 
>stepdaughter what she needed to know to get along, and show 
>her a good time in the process. And after our weekly dates, 
>we brought things to a climax, so to speak, in my bed. No 
>more wrestling in cars, thank you. The post mortems 
>continued, as we cuddled and talked about our sensations. 
>But when we were done, I always sent her back to sleep in 
>her own bed. This process was still 'training,' and not an 
>almost-incestuous affair. We had started the process with a 
>goal, and it was continuing toward that goal, even though 
>we didn't speak of it any more.
>
>And after the first 'date,' I didn't bring up Central High, 
>or high school boys.
>
>All the same, if I wanted to have a harvest at the end of 
>the summer, I needed to plant some seeds now. They would 
>take time to sprout.
>
>"Allison, tell me what you know about relationships." I 
>loved dropping these things on her out of the blue. But I'd 
>done it often enough now that she had learned to keep her 
>mouth shut until she'd begun to organize an answer.
>
>"You mean, like husband-wife?"
>
>"Be more general. People relationships."
>
>"Hm. From what I can see, one way to organize them is by 
>how much they have legal recognition. You've got employer-
>employee, which often has a written contract, husband-wife 
>which may, boyfriend-girlfriend which won't, and like 
>that."
>
>"Fine. Take that set, though obviously there are others, of 
>varying durations: shop clerk-customer, parent-child, ex-
>husband-ex-wife. Pimp-whore." She gave me a shocked look. 
>Still some prudishness left from Saint Virginia. "Each one 
>is a type of relationship. Generalize across all of them. 
>What's a relationship?"
>
>"They all have a set of assumptions and permissions, I 
>guess. Each participant assumes certain things about the 
>behavior of the other, and gives permission for behaviors 
>to the other."
>
>"A little pop-psych, but that's a start. And are the 
>assumptions and permissions permanently defined?"
>
>"Sometimes, in part." The girl would make a good consultant 
>someday. "I mean, take husband-wife. There are legal 
>restrictions, like about economic support, and assumptions, 
>about sex and such. Some behaviors society or laws don't 
>permit in a relationship if anyone complains, like abuse in 
>a marriage, or intercourse between a parent and child. 
>Beyond that, I guess the couple gets to choose, like who 
>takes out the garbage."
>
>I summarized, "So all relationships of any type are not the 
>same, and any given type of relationship may change, within 
>limits, over time. No surprise: look at us, stepfather-
>stepdaughter. We changed our relationship in some ways when 
>Jane died, and again when we began this training. And 
>usually, two people can change the /type/ of relationship 
>they're in, if they choose. Of course, some types of 
>relationship are forever and can't be left behind, like 
>biological parent and child. But generally, you see changes 
>of type all the time: clerk-customer become boyfriend-
>girlfriend, become husband-wife, become father-mother, 
>become ex-husband-ex-wife. Relationships often fall apart 
>if the permissions and assumptions of one party don't match 
>the other's. Sometimes two people can't find a 'pre-
>defined' relationship that works for them, and have to make 
>up a new type of their own. And each change of type has a 
>ceremony or event that marks the transition, maybe as 
>simple as the first kiss, maybe signing a contract, maybe 
>as elaborate as a church service."
>
>"Sure, what's the point?"
>
>"Exactly, what's the point of all this training you asked 
>for?" Well, she didn't exactly ask for it, but I took every 
>opportunity to confuse her recollections on that point. 
>"Why do you want to date? Is this just in support of, I 
>don't know, 'random social activity?' Does it stop at that, 
>or are you looking beyond that to a goal, something more 
>permanent, and if so, have you thought about what you want? 
>You want to land a guy? If so, how do you choose which one 
>to go after? What's the relationship you want? How do you 
>want to be treated? What lights your fire? As you said, 
>what's the point? I don't want an answer. I don't expect 
>you to have an answer, and if you did, I expect it would 
>change as you grow. But to misquote the Cheshire Cat, if 
>you don't have an idea of the relationship you want to wind 
>up in, any guy is as good as any other. Think about it as 
>you go through the summer." I went off to make lunch. All 
>this hoeing and seeding was hard work. Out of the corner of 
>my eye, I saw her pick up her three folders of stories and 
>start leafing through them. Good.
>
>Chapter 7: Endless Summer
>
>Things progressed quickly. I'm sure she felt that she was 
>constantly being bombarded with new things that stretched 
>her in ways, and places, that she never expected. But I had 
>to hurry her a bit. I had a plan with a deadline, and the 
>most delicate part of it required a stretch of downtime on 
>her part, and I couldn't rush that or control how long it 
>might be.
>
>She was an apt student, I'll give her that. We went from 
>handjobs after the Opera, to fellatio after a jazz 
>festival, to 69 after a day at the beach. Each new 
>technique was still being justified under the heading of  
>"avoiding intercourse." Each date involved a complete 
>review of all the previously-learned skills, with 
>refinements, coaching, and extensions. So it came about 
>that, on a weekend as July turned into August, after "As 
>You Like It," we were in my bed, spooned, me buried to the 
>hilt in her rectum. And yes, anal was pushing the "avoiding 
>intercourse" justification as far as it could be pushed. 
>
>She had waddled around all week with a butt plug in one 
>end, and a pained expression on the other. The build-up had 
>begun in the middle of July, when I started playing with 
>her asshole, running a finger around the rim, then into it, 
>then two fingers. When she got beyond the revulsion, the 
>squeamishness, when she admitted that she liked it, a 
>little, then a lot, I took her along slowly, to wind up 
>where we were now. The butt plug lay glistening on the side 
>table next to the bed. I was pleased with her: she had come 
>without any clitoral stimulation after the foreplay. She 
>had fully learned "relaxed going in, grip coming out." I 
>waited for the sweat to dry.
>
>"Allison, baby."
>
>"Mmmm, so full."
>
>"Allison, honey, it's time."
>
>"Nnnnn, a little longer?"
>
>"No honey, off you go to bed," and I pulled out, gently, 
>got a hot washcloth, and cleaned us both up.
>
>She rolled over in my arms for a last kiss. "Jack, I keep 
>saying this, but I never knew, so much pleasure.... I can't 
>wait to see the lesson for next week!" And she gathered up 
>her robe and made her way with careful steps to the door. 
>She'd be a little sore for a few days, in spite of the 
>preparation.
>
>And she'd be surprised at next week's lesson.
>
>Monday came and went with making a living. I shut down at 
>five and found her on the back porch, wearing a little 
>halter number, and handed her her drink. She had developed 
>a taste for Scotch-and-soda.
>
>She sat in my lap, a big smile on her face, careless of the 
>amount of thigh she showed. Her kiss tasted of Scotch-and-
>soda. She put her arms around my neck and asked, "What's 
>the new 'skill' for this week, teach?"
>
>"Nothing." She sat up, her face blank. "You're done. You 
>passed. You've mastered the 'essential skills.' You can go 
>to Central High in the fall if you want, and date, if you 
>want. There's one more thing you could learn, but I can't 
>teach it to you."
>
>A little chuckle from her. "I'd sort of forgotten about 
>Central. And high school boys. Why would I want to date one 
>of those?" Another kiss. She used the same disparaging tone 
>I had used on the words "boys" and "those." The kiss 
>lingered.
>
>After a long while she came up for air and looked up. "What 
>about the 'one more thing,' and why can't you teach it to 
>me?"
>
>Here we go, I thought. Show time. Everything on one throw 
>of the dice.
>
>"You remember when we talked about relationships? 
>Permissions and assumptions? Changing relationships? 
>Flexibility in defining what's permitted?" A nod. "The 
>stepfather-stepdaughter relationship isn't really well 
>defined, but whatever it is, you and I have been pushing 
>the envelope of what society permits, really hard. The 'one 
>more thing' would be the skills of actual intercourse, and 
>that, baby, is /not/ permitted to us in this relationship."
>
>I shut up. Now I'd learn whether the seed I'd planted a 
>month earlier would sprout. 
>
>Her hand crept under her skirt. Having spent two months 
>playing with herself in front of me, she no longer had any 
>shame on that score. That was unfortunate, but it was the 
>price that had to be paid. Perhaps I could fix that over 
>time. "And actual screwing, it's even better yet?" I 
>nodded. "I can't imagine anyone I want to give my virginity 
>to more.... But we can't?" I shook my head, not saying 
>anything. "If it's better than what we've done, God, just 
>the idea. I mean, I've been reading all those naughty 
>stories all summer, but it's just words. But if I can't do 
>it with you, Jack...."
>
>The silence stretched on. Had I been too subtle? I had to 
>keep my peace though, because she had to think that this 
>was her idea.
>
>"Waaait." She drew out the word. "You said 'in this 
>relationship.' Do /we/ get to change the type of 
>relationship we're in?"
>
>I barely resisted the impulse to pump my fist in the air in 
>victory. "Well, doll, I haven't really thought about it." 
>Like hell, I hadn't. "I mean, parent-child is forever, but 
>like I said, the stepparent role sort of loosely defined, 
>and it's by ceremony, not by blood. Are you thinking...."
>
>"Well, if we can't 'do it' as stepfather-stepdaughter, and 
>God, do I want to 'do it' with you, then maybe we should 
>choose another relationship."
>
>My little seed had become a beautiful little sprout.
>
>"Honey, my legs are going to sleep with you sitting on me 
>like that." She dismounted, still deep in thought. Now for 
>the next step. "It's an interesting idea." I made a show of 
>giving it some consideration. "Look, if you're thinking 
>about changing the type of relationship we have, we need to 
>go at this carefully. I think both of us want something 
>more permanent than 'boyfriend-girlfriend,' and I don't 
>want to marry again: Jane was my first and last wife." I 
>stopped, and let the silence stretch out. "You remember the 
>'What's the point?' discussion?" A nod. "Any thoughts on 
>what kind of relationship you want? Do your folders of 
>stories tell you anything?"
>
>"Yes, daddy." She blushed, "I..."
>
>"Wait." I stopped her. "Here's what I want you to do. Think 
>it through. You're going to be making a decision that will 
>affect your happiness for a long time to come. When you're 
>ready, when you're sure, write me a love letter. In the 
>letter, seduce me into the relationship you've chosen. Sell 
>it to me. Make me want it, too. Anticipate my doubts and 
>objections, and overcome them. Draw me a picture of how 
>we'd live. Writing the letter should make you want to play 
>with yourself. When I read it, I should have the same 
>reaction. Understand?"
>
>"Hmm, interesting. Yes. When do you want to see the 
>letter?"
>
>"When you're really ready, and really sure." And that 
>closed the discussion. We finished our drinks and went in 
>to start dinner. 
>
>Two weeks passed. I didn't touch her, not once. I told her 
>she no longer needed to play with herself, certainly not in 
>front of me. After all, all those things had been 
>"training," and the course was over. I was her stepfather. 
>I was not her lover, never had been. Yeah, right. Nothing 
>was said about the letter. But I could see that she was 
>spending a lot of time in her room, on her computer at all 
>hours, and no, she wasn't on the Internet. The way her 
>wastebasket was filling up, she was going through a lot of 
>drafts of something. 
>
>No, I didn't dig through her trash. I didn't think I needed 
>to, because I knew what stories wound up in her "Oh, wow!" 
>folder.
>
>Chapter 8: Billet Doux
>
>Dearest Jack, my only love,
>
>You have given me so much pleasure this summer, without 
>demanding anything in return. I'm sure it's getting old to 
>hear it, but I never knew my body could give me such 
>pleasure. The 'good Sisters' can go to Hell. I hope my body 
>has given you a little pleasure, too? All this time you 
>thought you were going to turn me over to a bunch of pimply 
>high school boys to play with. 
>
>You didn't touch me these last two weeks. I've been 
>climbing the curtains with need, but it proved to me that 
>you really thought of all that stuff we did as 'training,' 
>not a chance to grope your stepdaughter. Thank you, and I'm 
>ashamed that I ever doubted.
>
>You asked me, what relationship would I pick? I've watched 
>you work, and you taught me to think about 'requirements.' 
>What a dusty-sounding word for something so juicy. 
>Requirements: I want to please you, give you pleasure the 
>way you have given me pleasure. All day, every day, any 
>way, without limits. I want you to take without waiting for 
>me to give. But what relationships are without limits? Even 
>a mistress can say 'no,' and how can 'no' give pleasure? 
>And what relationship would accommodate my desperate desire 
>to please?
>
>You told me to go through my folder of stories. I didn't 
>really need to, because weeks ago I knew what fired my 
>rocket. It was the stories of submission, of dominance, of 
>helpless slave girls weeping and coming as they served the 
>lusts of cruel and demanding masters in some jungle or on 
>some faraway planet. The words I've written look so corny 
>on the page. Dammit, they are corny. But I look at the 
>words and say, that's what I want. Because those girls give 
>pleasure, no, it is demanded of them, torn from them, 
>without limit, and 'no' is gone from their vocabulary.
>
>You will say that slavery is dead in modern America. But 
>we're defining our own relationship, and we can use slavery 
>as a metaphor, a starting place, can't we? There's no 
>property ownership of people, any more, but in terms of 
>permissions and assumptions, it's a relationship where 
>everything is permitted to you, and I may assume nothing, 
>call the relationship what you will. To borrow the phrase 
>you used at the beginning of the summer, all my time, 
>energy, and focus will go to serve your pleasure, and my 
>discomfort means nothing. Any lapse from perfection would 
>merit punishment, because any lapse from perfection would 
>mean that I had failed to give you all the pleasure I could 
>and should and must.
>
>You ask, how can such a relationship last? What's in it for 
>little Allison? I'll tell you a story. Suppose that early 
>in their relationship, sometime before the Chateau, O did 
>something for Renee. The task itself held no pleasure for 
>O. It was the fact that Renee got pleasure from her efforts 
>that gave O the pleasure she needed to make the doing 
>worthwhile. Pleasure by reflection. Take it another turn. 
>Renee knew that O didn't enjoy doing the task. Knowing that 
>O imposed upon herself, or accepted being imposed upon, 
>increased Renee's pleasure, even if he took no direct 
>pleasure in the gift itself. That's what we mean when we 
>say "It's the thought that counts." But either way, O got 
>her pleasure from Renee's pleasure. The more O suffered for 
>him, the more Renee was pleased, and /therefore/ the more 
>pleasure O got from pleasing him. And /therefore/ the more 
>pleasure O got from suffering. That's what's in it for me: 
>I will get pleasure from your pleasure, the way the moon 
>gets its light from the sun. And when I must, I will feel 
>pleasure from your punishments, because I will know that 
>they are correcting me, preparing me to please you better.
>
>You want to know how we would live. And I say, any way that 
>gives you pleasure. Chain me in a dungeon or let me run. 
>Keep me naked or clothe me in silks. Beat me or stroke me 
>with scented oils. Force me come for hours or deprive me 
>for weeks. My last choice will be to do what you choose to 
>do with me.
>
>You have but to claim me. Have I seduced you, have I sold 
>it to you? 
>
>Yours without hope, the free woman now known as 
>
>Allison Kennedy.
>
>
>
>
>
>Chapter 9: September Song
>
>No, I didn't "claim" Allison on the spot, much as my dick 
>argued for it. You can imagine that the letter made for 
>interesting dinner conversation, which I will spare you, 
>except the following:
>
>"Allison, you're proposing a significant change in our 
>relationship." A nod, and a shrug from her, as if to say, 
>'well, duh'? "Back to what you know about relationships. 
>Generally, when there's a significant change in a 
>significant relationship, there's a more-or-less public 
>ceremony to mark the fact. Whether you're talking about 
>signing a contract, or formalizing a marriage, there's a 
>ceremony. That means that there are witnesses who can vouch 
>for the fact of the relationship. It makes it harder for 
>either party to back out of the new relationship, or claim 
>that it's something that it isn't. And it makes a kind of 
>punctuation mark in time, making it clear that 'before now' 
>was the old relationship, and 'after now' is something new, 
>with no going back."
>
>"Well," she said with light sarcasm, "I'll pop over to the 
>archdiocese and get a copy of their enslavement ceremony."
>
>"Look, you write well. Write your own ceremony. I don't 
>doubt that the Internet would yield endless examples with a 
>search for 'enslavement ceremony,' but you can get your 
>inspiration where you like. Couples write their own wedding 
>ceremonies, why not write your own ceremony of claiming?"
>
>"I guess I don't have any pressing engagements just now. If 
>I'm going to be a slave girl, I don't need to worry about 
>summer reading lists for either Central High OR Saint 
>Virginia."  She didn't need to know that I had plans afoot 
>on the subject of schooling.
>
>"Good. A little advice: keep it short. You can take a lot 
>of the text from your love letter. Make it clear what 
>you're doing, why you're doing it, what you expect of the 
>new relationship. You can use a bit of theater: you don't 
>have to tell your audience something if you can make it 
>clear by showing them." 
>
>She disappeared into her room, and again the wastebasket 
>began to overflow. Yet in a few days, she was satisfied. I 
>was delighted with the result. Invitations went out to a 
>select few of our more open-minded friends, and the 
>remaining preparations were indistinguishable from any 
>small garden wedding.
>
>I didn't touch her, not even once. But I did send her to 
>her OB/GYN to get on The Pill.
>
>The great day came, and the well-stocked caterer's tent 
>went up in the garden, near what they assumed to be some 
>sort of arbor or trellis. Chairs were set out. The 
>caterer's people were dismissed.
>
>I found Allison in her bedroom, looking over the garden, 
>dreamy-eyed.
>
>"Are you sure about this, baby?"
>
>She came into my arms, urgent, squirming. "God yes. I'm 
>scared as hell. I've got butterflies the size of bombers in 
>my stomach, And I'm running like a faucet 'down there.' I'm 
>glad you made me keep the ceremony short."
>
>I laughed, and kissed the top of her forehead. "Enjoy your 
>last hour as a free woman. The guests are starting to 
>arrive."
>
>I did the meet-and-greet thing, and Allison came out to 
>circulate with the guests. I was in my suit, and she was 
>wearing a white, lacy, calf-length, loose summer dress that 
>she had had made for the ceremony. Finally we had a quorum, 
>the guests sat on the chairs gathered at one corner of the 
>garden, and Allison and I took our places in front of the 
>small group. She stood at my side, we faced the group, I 
>put my arm around her shoulder, and she put her arms around 
>my waist and snuggled in.
>
>Allison had taken my advice, and copied liberally from her 
>love letter, so much of what follows will be familiar 
>language to the reader. I started in, from the script that 
>she had written.
>
>"Welcome, friends, to our home and to this ceremony. What 
>you're about to be witnesses to will mark a change in the 
>relationship between Allison and myself. I'm confident in 
>saying that you are unlikely ever to see another ceremony 
>like it. There will be elements of the ceremony that are 
>likely to profoundly disturb some people. Each of you has 
>been invited because of your long friendship with Allison 
>or myself, and because we believe you to be sufficiently 
>open-minded to accept what you're about to see. If you even 
>suspect that we might have been wrong, we suggest that you 
>excuse yourself at this time." I paused. Nobody moved, 
>beyond the odd raised eyebrow.
>
>Allison took over. "I wrote this ceremony. Myself. Every 
>word of it. With two exceptions, which Jack will explain 
>when we come to them, I completely scripted each event in 
>the ceremony. Not to put too fine a point on it: if the 
>question occurs to you, I want this to happen the way it is 
>going to happen." Several guests traded glances. 
>
>I went on. "I'm glad that's out of the way. Let's begin." 
>
>I disengaged from Allison, and we turned to face each 
>other. The audience was to one side of us, and could see 
>both of our faces in profile. We began the ceremony, 
>looking into each other's eyes.
>
>"What is your name?"
>
>"Allison Kennedy."
>
>"Why are you here?"
>
>"To give myself to you, voluntarily, freely, completely, 
>and irrevocably."
>
>Not too bad so far, rather vanilla stuff.
>
>"What relationship do you seek?"
>
>"A relationship where everything is permitted to you. I 
>forbid nothing, I may forbid nothing. I demand nothing, 
>expect nothing. I accept everything in advance, without 
>knowing what you will demand. I want you to take without 
>waiting for me to give." 
>
>I stole a glance at the audience. The eyebrows were 
>starting to go up again. Back to Allison.
>
>"What do you call this relationship?"
>
>"Call the relationship what you will: if slavery is dead 
>today, let me use it as a metaphor. All my time, energy, 
>and focus will go to serve your pleasure, my discomfort 
>means nothing. I want to please you, give you pleasure the 
>way you have given me pleasure, give without taking. All 
>day, every day, any way, without limits."
>
>"What if you fail to please to your utmost?"
>
>"I would beg you to punish me for failing to fulfill my 
>promise to you, and correct me so that I did not fail 
>again."
>
>"Why do you want this relationship?"
>
>"I will get pleasure from pleasing you, the way the moon 
>gets its light from the sun."
>
>"What do you offer?" 
>
>"Absolute and instant obedience. I won't negotiate, won't 
>consider, won't accept, won't even wait to understand. Just 
>do, instantly, like a reflex."
>
>"How will you be called?"
>
>"I will have no name, unless you wish to give me one."
>
>"How will you be clothed?"
>
>"My clothing has been for concealment. How can concealment 
>give you pleasure? I will be clothed as you wish, even if 
>not at all."
>
>"How will you be fed?"
>
>"By your hand, and by your wishes, even if not at all."
>
>"What are your rights? What limits do you place upon the 
>relationship?"
>
>"I want no rights, because they imply choice, the option to 
>refuse. I place no limits. How can refusal or limits 
>increase your pleasure?"
>
>"Very well." I put my hands on her shoulders. "I accept 
>you." I pushed down gently, and she went to her knees. I 
>thought absently that there would be grass stains on her 
>dress. I twisted her hair into a rope, gripped it in my 
>fist, and faced the audience. I raised my voice, a little, 
>because this was the punctuation mark. "I claim this woman 
>as my property, to do with as I see fit." 
>
>A murmur through the audience. Rub their faces in it. I 
>turned back to her and looked down. Time to show the 
>"after." 
>
>Still with my hand gripping her hair: "What are you?"
>
>"If it pleases you, sir, let me be your slave."
>
>"Why do you exist?"
>
>"To give you pleasure."
>
>"And if you cease to give pleasure?"
>
>"If it pleases you, sir, I would cease to exist."
>
>"Do you have the right to say 'no'?"
>
>"I'm sorry sir, I don't know that word."
>
>"What is your name?"
>
>"You have not chosen to give me a name."
>
>I turned again to the audience, and dropped my hand from 
>her hair. "This is the first of two moments in the ceremony 
>that Allison did not script. She does not know the name I 
>will choose for her to wear in her new life." I walked 
>around her, pretending to consider. 
>
>I had a wicked thought. "You certainly are long and 
>slender. Perhaps I will call you 'Sprout.'  She looked up 
>at me with the look that said, "That has gone far enough."
>
>"Yes, I will call you 'Sprout.'" She looked at me with 
>horror. I could tell that she wanted to shake her head, but 
>caught herself in time. Good girl.
>
>"What is your name?"
>
>A tear began to run down the side of her nose. "'Sprout,' 
>sir, if it pleases you."
>
>"It pleases me. Stand up, Sprout."
>
>She stood, still facing me. Her eyes were wide, her head 
>making the tiniest of 'no' motions, not of negation, but of 
>disbelief that I would do this to her. I looked at her. "On 
>the other hand, you're smarter than the average vegetable, 
>a little. Maybe even as smart as the average alley cat." I 
>snapped my fingers. "That's it! I will call you 'Allie.'"
>
>She had hated that nickname, never permitted it, corrected 
>everyone who used it. But it was a promotion from 'Sprout.'
>
>"Thank you, sir."
>
>"What is your name?"
>
>"'Allie,' sir, if it pleases you."
>
>"It pleases me."
>
>A pause. I nodded to her. She wiped the tear from her 
>cheek, and turned to the audience for a moment, and said 
>"We are beginning the last part of the ceremony. I beg you 
>again to remember that the free woman I used to be wrote 
>this as you will see it, and that she wanted this to 
>happen." She turned back to me, and nodded. She knew what 
>was coming. After all, she'd written the script.
>
>I said, "Are you a free woman?"
>
>"I am a slave."
>
>She might have said "no," but her new identity did not 
>permit it.
>
>"Is a slave allowed to dress as a free women?"
>
>"Only with her owner's permission."
>
>"Do you have that permission?"
>
>"My owner has not given me that permission."
>
>"What is the punishment for a slave who dresses as a free 
>woman without permission?"
>
>"Whatever her owner chooses."
>
>"Very well. Remove the offending garment." Murmurs from the 
>audience. I thought they were taking this all rather well.
>
>She reached to the nape of her neck where there was a 
>single drawstring, tied in a simple bow knot. She tugged on 
>the knot, and a second later she was gloriously, proudly, 
>royally, totally naked. A white Aida. The dress made a 
>white puddle about her feet.
>
>"You will be caned for forgetting your place, for 
>attempting to disguise yourself as a free woman, and for 
>concealing the body whose appearance gives me pleasure." I 
>led her to the trellis/arbor construction a couple of steps 
>away. It was built far more solidly than would be needed to 
>hold up a rose bush. Soon her hands were cuffed, separated, 
>and raised above her head. She was facing away from the 
>audience.
>
>I faced the guests again. "This element of the ceremony is 
>to accomplish three things. First, to prove to Allie beyond 
>doubt that I will punish her when I wish. Second, for her 
>to prove to me that she will accept such treatment if I 
>choose to deliver it, with or without justification. Third, 
>to prove to you that she voluntarily accepts this behavior 
>as part of our new relationship. Allison scripted this 
>scene, excepting only the number of stripes Allie is to 
>receive. To tell you the truth, I don't know how many it 
>will be, myself."
>
>I put in Allie's mouth a folded washcloth, not as a gag, 
>but to protect her teeth and tongue when she bit down from 
>the pain. I picked up a cane that had been hanging on the 
>trellis. Her eyes were closed. I pulled back the cane and 
>struck at her ass, very hard.
>
>She stiffened, rose on her toes, and moaned into the 
>washcloth.
>
>At the next strike, on the back of her thighs, she raised 
>one leg, as though she were trying to mount a bicycle. 
>
>I was looking for something, and found it on the fifth 
>strike. The last three had been across her back. She had 
>finally started crying, and her head hung down between her 
>stretched arms. The sound coming through the washcloth was 
>a continuous keening, like very distant singing. I was 
>surprised to find that I was crying, too. I dropped the 
>cane.
>
>I whispered in her ear, "That's all, Allie. It's over. You 
>did fine. Rest for a minute and I'll be back."  
>
>I left her hanging there and went back to the guests, 
>wiping my eyes. "That concludes the ceremony of the 
>claiming of Allie, the woman you knew as Allison Kennedy. I 
>would like to emphasize a few points. First, when Allison 
>became Allie, you heard her give up the right to say 'no', 
>which includes the right to refuse access to her body. 
>However, that right was transferred to her new owner. I 
>will not be pleased if anyone attempts to use my property 
>without my permission. I trust that I make myself clear?" I 
>made eye contact with each guest. There weren't all that 
>many of them. "Second, some day you may meet Allie on the 
>street. It is likely that she will be disguised as a free 
>woman. I would appreciate it if you were discreet. I don't 
>expect Allie's new life to remain fully secret for long, 
>but I expect that you will use judgment in whom you tell, 
>and how, and how you speak to her when you meet.
>
>"Finally, you have seen about all of Allie there is to see. 
>But I would be a poor host if I continued to dangle such a 
>morsel naked in front of you, so she will be clothed, after 
>a fashion, during the reception. Refreshments will be 
>available in the tent in twenty minutes or so. Please enjoy 
>the gardens for a few moments and then join us." 
>
>I bent down to pick up a small piece of white cloth that 
>had been lying on the ground nearby. It was a little 
>stained from lying there, not entirely clean any more. I 
>went back to Allie. I took the washrag from her mouth, gave 
>her a drink of water, kissed away her tears, disconnected 
>her cuffs from the arbor, and we put our arms around each 
>other. "You OK?" I felt her nod her head beneath my chin. 
>"Did it come out the way you wanted?"
>
>"Yes. Yes. But oh, GOD, that thing hurts. Please make sure 
>I never deserve the cane?" She shuddered in my arms.
>
>It was time for one last bit of establishing the new 
>relationship, at least for the moment. Without speaking, I 
>gave her the cloth I was holding. She swabbed her face and 
>blew her nose on it. She looked around quickly, and wiped 
>the soaked insides of her thighs, too. When she was done, 
>she handed it to me. I shook it out into a little tunic-
>like dress, handed it back, and told her to put it on and 
>go serve my guests their refreshments. All she could say, 
>with wide eyes and a certain air of wonder, was "Oh, you 
>meanie." 
>
>After the last guest had gone, I took the cuffs off of 
>Allie's wrists and sent her in to bathe, then called the 
>waiting caterer in through the gate to come get their 
>equipment. When they'd finally gone, I went up to the 
>master bedroom and found Allie kneeling at the side of the 
>bed. The welts were beginning to turn purple. I didn't know 
>how long she'd been waiting. It occurred to me that she had 
>probably spent hours practicing that position, alone in her 
>room. 
>
>I ignored her while I changed out of my suit into a robe, 
>and splashed my face. Then I came over and sat on the edge 
>of the bed, took her face between my hands, and kissed her. 
>"OK, slave, what's going on in your head? Just let it 
>flow."
>
>"I've been kneeling like this forever. My back and ass 
>sting like fury. When you came into the room now I wanted 
>to stand up, throw you on your back on the bed, and rape 
>you. But somewhere deep down where I hadn't realized it 
>before, I knew that 'I want,' is gone, gone, gone. They 
>told me you were crying when you caned me. I'm making a wet 
>spot on your carpet."
>
>I smiled into her eyes. "Come to bed, Allie. It's time."  I 
>guided her up onto her feet, re-cuffed her hands behind her 
>back, and purely for theatrics, chained her ankle to the 
>bedpost. It's not as though she was wanting to escape. But 
>if she wanted the "slave girl" shtick, who was I to spoil 
>it for her by denying her the trimmings that came with it? 
>I ran her quickly through her repertoire, as best she could 
>with her hands cuffed, skipping the anal. Then I got on my 
>back and had her straddle and mount me. She took two or 
>three shallow strokes up against her maidenhead, set her 
>face, and plunged downward. "Eeeeeeuuugh" was all she could 
>manage through gritted teeth, and she froze in position for 
>a minute or two. I rested my thumb on her clit, and after a 
>while she began a small, experimental movement of her hips. 
>In a moment a tiny smile came to her face, and she began to 
>"grip on the upstroke, loose on the downstroke." It was 
>delightful, and neither one of us could hold out for long. 
>When she came, she convulsed once, twice, and pitched 
>forward in a dead faint. I narrowly avoided getting my nose 
>broken by her descending forehead. Served me right.
>
>I disconnected her cuffs, leaving the chain on her ankle. I 
>spread her out on a little mat at the foot of the bed, 
>covered her with a thin blanket, cleaned myself of the 
>fluids of her inaugural fuck, and went to bed.
>
>Chapter 10: The First Day of the Rest of Your Life
>
>The next morning, a Sunday, I awoke before the alarm, and 
>got to my feet. Allie was still zonked. Her thighs were 
>encrusted and bloody. She was beautiful. I prodded her 
>belly with my toe, not gently, and was rewarded with an 
>"Oof." 
>
>"Up, lazy wench. This is the first day of the rest of your 
>life."
>
>She groaned, and then, with surprising grace, flowed into a 
>kneeling position. I say surprising, given how stiff and 
>sore she must have been. "How may I serve you, master?"
>
>I reached around and took the chain off of her ankle, and 
>the cuffs from her wrists. "Go make my coffee, shower, put 
>on your robe, and get back here. You have twenty-five 
>minutes." I went to take my own shower.
>
>She made it in time, just, put the coffee on my desk, and 
>knelt at my feet. It was clear that she wasn't eager to 
>sit, just yet.
>
>"OK, it's time to establish the expectations under which 
>you'll live in your new role. Here are two notebooks, and a 
>pen. On the cover of the first, write 'Policies and 
>Assignments.' I'm about to give you a list of policies, 
>which are long-term rules you must obey any time a given 
>policy applies. Assignments are one-time things I want you 
>to do, like pick up a quart of milk on the way home, or 
>whatever. Policies go in the front of that notebook, 
>assignments in the back."
>
>"On cover of the second, write 'Discipline.' I expect you 
>to put an entry in that notebook any time you feel that you 
>have done less than demanded, less than your best, less 
>than perfection. Call my attention to it. I will put in the 
>correction I consider appropriate, and will check it off 
>when it has been executed, which may be some time later. At 
>the top of the first page of each notebook, write, in large 
>letters, 'ABSOLUTE OBEDIENCE.' You will keep a copy of your 
>love letter attached to the inside front cover of the 
>'policies' notebook. You are to keep both of these 
>notebooks available to me. As a practical matter, that 
>means that when we're in the house, just don't lose track 
>of where they are. When we leave the house, you must have 
>them in your hand, or in your bag."
>
>"Now, policies. When you are in the master bedroom suite, 
>you will not speak without permission. Anywhere else, I 
>love the sound of your voice, and I want to hear you. You 
>are smart, and witty, and I want you to talk to me, 
>whenever you wish. But in this suite, no. How do you get 
>permission? If I ask you a question that you can't answer 
>by pointing, or nodding, or raising so-many fingers, you 
>automatically have permission to speak. Otherwise, take a 
>position where I can see you, and raise your hand, just 
>like in grade school. If I give you permission, you may 
>speak. Write that down. Not verbatim, but make notes of the 
>important points." She wrote.
>
>"I do not want to be called 'master,' or 'sir,' or any 
>other honorific. Let your actions show your respect. If you 
>find it necessary to use a noun of direct address, you may 
>call me 'Mr. Kennedy.'" She wrote.
>
>"Some owners want a slave that does exactly what she's 
>told, when she's told, never anticipates an order, and no 
>more. I own you in part because of your mind. Be inventive. 
>Anticipate my desires. Look for ways to please me that I 
>don't expect. Surprise and delight me. Astonish me! Of 
>course, if you get it wrong, it will go badly for you."
>
>"You will not normally be naked during the day. I want you 
>to put together a wardrobe of clothing that you will wear 
>around the house. I'm thinking in terms of the degree of 
>coverage of a tennis dress, or a swimsuit coverup, or an 
>ice skater's costume, or the kind of thing a desperately 
>horny girl would wear clubbing. Use your imagination. It 
>should be clothing you'd be mortified to be seen wearing in 
>public. We may have guests here from time to time, some of 
>whom will not know of our relationship, and I won't give 
>you the opportunity to dress any differently for them from 
>the way you do for me. Maintaining anything like decency 
>should be a constant struggle, and a losing battle. I want 
>you clothed, but only just, not because I expect to become 
>bored with your enchanting naked figure, but because I want 
>to have the ability to deny you clothing as punishment, or 
>for my amusement. I don't want you to get used to being 
>naked. There is nothing less interesting than a slut. This 
>is implies an assignment." She flipped to the back of the 
>notebook and looked up. "Go shopping for day clothes."
>
>"Further on clothing." She flipped to the front of the 
>notebook. "You will wear nothing that blocks my access to 
>your cunt or ass at any time, in public or in private. No 
>panties, no pants, no pantyhose. Now that I've broken you 
>in, use a tampon during your period."
>
>"Policy: you will be totally hairless below the neck. 
>Assignment: shave, then acquire and use a home electrical 
>depilatory kit."
>
>"Your lips will be slack and your mouth open at all times."
>
>"You will keep your asshole greased for my use at all 
>times."
>
>I waited while she caught up.
>
>"I will demand that you take care of yourself, both 
>physically and mentally. Assignment: enroll in a health 
>club and sign up for any exercise regimen that keeps you 
>limber and fit. I don't care if it's yoga or kickboxing or 
>anything else. Work up a sweat five days a week."
>
>"In terms of keeping yourself fit mentally, I've had some 
>discussions with Chancellor Reed of the State University 
>here in town. He's reviewed your record from Saint Virginia 
>along with your SATs, and sees no reason why you shouldn't 
>be able to enter State as a freshman immediately. You'll..."
>
>"Jack! State! Omigawd, State!" 
>
>"Allie. What have you just done? Look at the policies." 
>
>Her mouth snapped shut, and she scanned down the policies. 
>She had spoken out of turn, and addressed me incorrectly. 
>Another scan through the policies. I had asked her a 
>question she couldn't answer by pointing, so she 
>automatically had permission to speak. "I spoke without 
>permission in the master suite. I didn't call you 'Mr. 
>Kennedy.' I'm sorry, Mr. Kennedy."
>
>"You will be. Put it in your Discipline Book. I'm not going 
>to beat you for this--too many beatings shows a lack of 
>inventiveness on the part of the owner. Besides, it was 
>your mouth that sinned, not your back or your ass. For 
>'punishment,' put 'four hours with gag.'" She looked up at 
>me, and swallowed. "Write it. And there's no time like the 
>present." I reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a 
>penis gag, one recently made to my own specifications, in 
>that the depth of oral penetration could be easily 
>adjusted. She still had some trouble with her gag reflex, 
>and this was an opportunity. I guessed at the right depth, 
>and strapped it home. "Awrk! Hngrrh!! Hngrrh!!!" Hmm, back 
>off a quarter of an inch? Ah, that will do. She was far 
>from comfortable, gagging every few seconds, her chin 
>pointed upward, swallowing constantly to fight the reflex, 
>but that was the idea. "Note the start time in your 
>Discipline Book." She did, with difficulty. "And when you 
>drool, clean it up. Come back to me when the time is up and 
>I'll remove the gag."
>
>"As I was saying about State. You'll need to take come 
>catch-up courses to make up for the year you will miss at 
>Saint Virginia, but the Advanced Placement courses you took 
>will partially offset that. And put in an assignment: 
>Complete application paperwork for State. That will be all 
>for now. You're dismissed." 
>
>She stood up, wiped the drool that was already forming on 
>her lower lip, and came around my desk and kissed me. 
>That's hard to do with your face is as full of machinery as 
>hers was, but she managed somehow. Then she followed her 
>nipples out of the room, trailing behind her the occasional 
>sound of choking.
>
>Chapter 11: Thanks for the Memories
>
>It was six months later, that our little household changed 
>again. Allie came into the study, and I saw that today was 
>"latex maid day." It wasn't my fetish, but she always 
>seemed extra juicy after a "latex day," so I didn't mind. 
>The chain hobble between her ankles didn't slow her down 
>all that much, except on the stairs. And the impressively-
>sized ballgag hanging loosely around her neck was like a 
>bright red pendant on a necklace. The woman dressed kinkier 
>every day. Yesterday had been "Catholic schoolgirl day," 
>though I doubt the good Sisters would have approved Allie's 
>alterations to their uniform. 
>
>She raised her hand. A handcuff was closed around her 
>wrist, the other cuff dangling and open, ready.
>
>"Yes?"
>
>"Mr. Kennedy, your birthday is coming up in a couple of 
>months, and I was hoping to do something special to 
>surprise you. But...it will take money."
>
>"How much?"
>
>She named a figure, and I raised an eyebrow. "That's some 
>surprise." I thought for a moment. Business had been good, 
>recently, and I had a fair amount of money laid away. What 
>the hell, it's only money. "Very well, go ahead." 
>
>"Thank you, Mr. Kennedy. You won't be disappointed." She 
>knew what would happen if I were.
>
>I wrote out the check, blank as to payee (wouldn't be much 
>of a surprise otherwise, would it?) and forgot about it. In 
>the spirit of the thing, I was careful not to look for the 
>cancelled check after it cleared.
>
>A couple of months later, on the day before my birthday, 
>and right at the end of Allie's freshman year, I received a 
>thin envelope in the mail, with a return address of the 
>Psych department at the University she was attending. Allie 
>was downstairs, somewhere. Upon opening it, I found the 
>following letter, on University letterhead:
>
>  * * *
>
>Dear Mr. Kennedy,
>
>Allow me to introduce myself. I am Dr. ____, Professor of 
>Psychology, in the Department of Psychology and Psychiatry 
>at State University. I am writing you at the request of 
>Miss Allie Kennedy.
>
>My particular research interest is the human memory, and 
>specifically how it is distorted. I have almost 
>accidentally become an authority on the phenomenon of 
>'false memory,' by which people are induced to 'remember,' 
>quite vividly, things that simply never happened. There 
>have been multiple court cases recently in which this has 
>been an important element. People have fully and honestly 
>confessed to crimes they couldn't possibly have committed, 
>truly believing themselves guilty. Young women have, in the 
>belief that they are telling the truth, accused their 
>fathers of rape, of fathering children upon them, young 
>women who passed lie detector tests to support the 
>accusation--young women whom subsequent medical examination 
>shows still to be virgins. There are other cases that I 
>won't bore you with. 
>
>Suffice it that the phenomenon of 'false memory' is now 
>tolerably well understood, to the point of having made the 
>pages of 'Scientific American.' 
>
>Now to the present.
>
>Miss Kennedy has spoken to me at length about your 
>relationship with her. It is not my place to judge either 
>of you. I will only note that you have a remarkable woman 
>here, and I hope you deserve her. She came to me a couple 
>of months ago with an extraordinary request: she wanted me 
>to create in her a false memory. After considerable soul-
>searching, and after cross-examining her at length to 
>ensure that this is what she really wanted, I agreed to do 
>so, and have done so.
>
>(I worked it out and thought, yeah, and the size of my 
>check didn't hurt, either.)
>
>I have videotapes of all sessions between us under lock and 
>key, to protect all the parties involved.
>
>You will find in Attachment A a manuscript in Miss 
>Kennedy's hand giving you her rationale for this action. 
>
>Attachment B is a manuscript, also in Miss Kennedy's hand, 
>of the 'memory' she asked me to create, which I have done. 
>You should be aware that one of the characteristics of 
>'false memory' is that, once the core images have been 
>introduced, the subject often unconsciously elaborates 
>them, fills them in, with details that will be every bit as 
>vivid as the core images, and which they will believe to be 
>true with absolute certainty.
>
>At her request, Miss Kennedy currently has no memory of 
>having visited me, nor is she aware of the 'memory' which 
>lies latent in her mind. Attachment C contains the trigger 
>phrase that will bring the latent 'memory' forth. 
>Attachment C also contains a trigger phrase that will 
>enable her to remember that 'memory' is false, and how it 
>came to be in her mind. The second trigger phrase exists in 
>case you decide that, to speak bluntly, the whole thing was 
>a mistake. Please understand that each trigger phrase can 
>be used only once. This is because the transition will be 
>almost violent, at the psychological level, and I felt I 
>needed to prevent the psychological damage that multiple 
>transitions could cause to her mind, rather as repeated 
>concussions do to the brain.
>
>Finally, in the event of your death, she will recall 
>visiting me, and will understand that the memory, if 
>activated, is false. This is a precaution to avoid 
>potential emotional, or even legal, problems that are 
>unforeseeable at this time, but which would otherwise be 
>very difficult to reverse if no one knew to notify me to 
>intervene.
>
>I hope that you and Miss Kennedy find pleasure in what she 
>has asked me to do. Remember that it can be undone. 
>
>Sincerely yours, 
>
>Dr. ______
>
>  * * *
>
>I turned the page, and was confronted with a page of 
>Allie's handwriting on lined legal paper. At the top was 
>overtyped "Attachment A. Page 1 of 1." In the lower corner, 
>I could make out what must be Dr. ____'s initials. Careful 
>fellow.
>
>  * * *
>
>Dear Mr. Kennedy, my lord and my love,
>
>These pages I write are the only physical existence of my 
>gift to you. Please bear with me while I justify my 
>actions.
>
>You have made for me a comfortable and protecting home, for 
>which I love you. You are a demanding owner, for which I am 
>grateful.
>
>You know I want only to please you. You know that I try to 
>meet your demands before you know that you will make them.  
>I work on my skills to be good for you.
>
>I know of only one thing I have left to offer for your 
>greater pleasure, but it's something you've never wanted, 
>and that is my pain. I could do more, give more, but the 
>things I could do and give would not bring you pleasure 
>today, because you'd have to hurt me to get them, and you 
>have been too decent an owner to demand that, though I'd 
>give my pain freely and gladly for your pleasure.
>
>Do you remember what I put in my love letter not so long 
>ago? "The more that O suffered for him, the more Renee was 
>pleased, and /therefore/ the more pleasure O got from 
>pleasing him."
>
>You could wring more pleasure from me, more pleasure for 
>both of us, but only if hurting me would please you.
>
>My gift, if you will have it, is to make it possible for me 
>to 'remember' that I have gotten pleasure from being hurt, 
>not only indirectly by pleasing you, but also somehow 
>directly, in the pain itself. I will be able to 'remember' 
>that you have gotten pleasure from my pain, AND SO HAVE I. 
>I want to give you greater pleasure by making it easier for 
>you to hurt me, to demand my pain, because you will know 
>that I now believe myself capable of finding, and will 
>expect to find, pleasure in the pain.
>
>You hold the keys in your hands. Please understand that, at 
>the time you read this letter, I will have no remembrance 
>of having written it.
>
>All my obedience, devotion, and love,
>
>Allie
>
>  * * *
>
>My first reaction was, "Oh, really!", which is what I say 
>when I've got nothing to say. The woman had, indeed, 
>astonished me. I turned to the brief "Attachment B" and 
>read carefully the things she'd asked to "remember," things 
>that never happened. She wanted to believe that, when I 
>spanked her that first time, she'd become very aroused, and 
>tried to hump the wall while I was out of the room. To 
>"remember" that, during one of her private masturbation 
>sessions, she'd experimented with clothespins on her 
>nipples and it got her off (her note said that she had 
>tried clothespins, but they just hurt). To think that, 
>while I was caning her at the ceremony, she had orgasmed 
>from the pain in front of everyone. There was more, but 
>that was the tone of all of it. The girl wanted to please 
>me, and if it took her pain, she was ready to deliver it.
>
>I sat at my desk for a long time after I finished reading. 
>The sunlight outside began to fade into dusk. 
>
>It took a long time for me to put my finger on what was 
>bothering me. There was an assumption here: Allie was 
>assuming that if, under the influence of her false memory, 
>she 'remembered' having gotten pleasure from pain, her 
>belief that it had happened to her before would mean that 
>she would in fact feel real masochistic pleasure when 
>experiencing real pain, something that, as far as I knew, 
>she never had done. She was betting that the expectation 
>would cause the reality. That was an assumption, and a risk 
>she was apparently willing to take.
>
>Did I want to take that risk with her? The problem was 
>that, if I took her up on this offer, an offer that at this 
>point she didn't even know she'd made, and I began hurting 
>her, and it didn't work out, what then? Sure, I could back 
>the worm out of her mind, it said here, but after doing so, 
>she'd still remember that, at some time in the real world, 
>I had actually been willing to hurt her for my pleasure, 
>not for punishment. What would that do to our relationship? 
>What would she think of me, then?
>
>I flipped back to her letter, and re-read "...though I'd give 
>my pain freely and gladly for your pleasure."  
>
>While I was reading, Allie came silently into the room, 
>carrying my evening drink. She was wearing only a Very 
>Short red tunic. It was not sheer, but had the perfect 
>quality of translucence such that, if you'd looked at it as 
>you walked past her on the street, you'd be fifty feet 
>beyond her before your brain said, "Did I see what I think 
>I saw?"  She knelt gracefully in front of my desk, and 
>reached up to put the drink on the desk's surface in front 
>of me, meeting my eyes. She pulled the hem of the tunic 
>down to cover her slit, and blushed.
>
>Without further thought, I turned to Attachment C. A day 
>early, perhaps, but it was time to unwrap my birthday 
>present.
><1st attachment end>
>
>
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